My Way Out
by Zanteh
Summary: Francis and Arthur have been supporting each other since childhood, but something is changing in their relationship... Long fan-fiction, weird plot and ROMANCE, Along with some wit, friendship and hard times together. AU, many other countries included.
1. Joyous spring

I own nothing but my psycho perverted mind and the wish to entertain you all.

* * *

Français-English:

"_Francis , il y a le téléphone qui sonne et jamais personne qu'il répond-" : _Francis, the phone is ringing but there's no-one ever answering it

«Allô ? Qui est à l'appareil ? » : Hello, who's speaking?

...en travaillant : while working

_Ouais, sureme-.. Attend! Quoi?_" : Yeah, sure... Wait! What?

* * *

Joyous spring

The sun was shining happily outside the window, warming with his bright rays the green leaves of the flourished trees and the colourful wings of the cheerful birds. Spring was bathing the world with its delicious happiness, when a serious call made Francis' phone ring.

"_Francis , il y a le téléphone qui sonne et jamais personne qu'il répond-"_

_«Allô ? Qui est à l'appareil ? »_ He answered jauntily, not giving the slightest glance to the display. He would never refuse a nice talk while working.

"Make a guess, git." Was the blunt answer. Francis' smile grew wider at the sound of the familiar voice. They hadn't been talking for quite a while and now, suddenly, this fortunate call. He sighted lightly before replying contently.

"A proper Englishman wouldn't use such vocabulary, Arthur_._"

"A proper Englishman would send roses up your-"

"It's not nice to call someone with the precise intention to insult them, _mon ami._ And I'm actually working, so would you go to Hell, _s'il te plait_?" He started swirling his blue pen in his hand nonchalantly, taking off the top and putting it back in place, his gaze roaming through the bright well-decorated room. A picture of him and his cousin Feliciano was hanging on the peach-coloured wall in front of him. _Time has gone by,_ he thought as a low sigh escaped his already parted lips.

"Are you working? Seriously?"

"No, jokingly. Arthur, you never waste time on useless phone calls, so,... What's up? Is there anything wrong?"

"Why, do you really think I would call you to cry on your shoulder? Who the Hell do you think you are, my saviour? It's just... Well..." Silence.

"Well?" He frowned, already standing up, ready to leave and slam his door open to catch the firs train to his place. After what happened in the past, he was always afraid Arthur would attempt something stupid.

"Francis, are you doing anything special tonight? Because, you know, there's the match on and watching it all alone sounds kind of depressive... So... if you're fine with that, what about coming over for dinner?" They both could hear the difficulty he had in making such a proposal and yet, they both agreed silently in saying nothing at all.

"_Pourquoi pas?_ I'll be leaving for... _Attends..._ Ow, _dépêche_-_toi, stupid ordi! Alors-" _He kept on insulting his computer, adding come other nice compliments referred to the slow cable line, which refused to open the travel agent's web-page.

"Listen, just let me know if you're getting here before dinner-time, okay?" He asked annoyed from the other side of the phone.

Francis punched the computer in answering. "D'accord, just give me the time to catch a train and I'll text you once in London." In spite of his mild rage, his eyes were shining with glee as he imagined himself stepping out the door, leaving all his problems behind.

"M-mh, take your time. Dunno, have some breakfast, doddle, organise your marriage... or work. It'd be nice if you worked sometimes." He was joking, Francis could tell by the tone of his voice. Yet, he felt slightly insulted.

"Why, saving the best for later?" He chuckled before shutting the phone closed. He could hear him swearing on the other side, his face reddened both by anger and embarrassment. It was so easy to make Arthur crossed. Humming a popular song he roamed through his flat, opened the window and smiled at the sun.

* * *

It was almost lunch-time, when Arthur's phone rang cheerfully."_London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared and battle comes down-" _

He glanced at the display. "Francis..." He muttered. "_London calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboard, you boys and-_" he turned it off and smiled dauntingly, before throwing the phone on the other side of the black couch. "I said evening, git."

With his lunch in his hands, he walked outside on te balcon. The sun was blessing England with his joy and Arthur couldn't, but smile at it thankfully.

* * *

It was an hour past tea-time when a shiny black cab parked in front of the Englishman's house. There was still a pleasant red-rose light wrapping the world in its sweet embrace, a last motherly kiss before the coldness of the night could swallow reality to keep it safe in its bosom.

Fortunately, Francis always had some Pounds with him, as he had forgotten to change his Euros before travelling to the green island. He handed the driver the money and got off with a relieved smile on his face. It had been a short yet tiring journey.

Walking to the door, he rested his eyes on the few flowers around the steps. Lilies, violets, eyes-of-angels,... They all smiled at him with their light-coloured eyes. He knocked slightly before pushing the handle. That warm house welcomed him as an old friend.

He stepped in, his eyes shifting from side to side to catch a glimpse of Arthur's figure in that silent, lightly dark world. A noise from the kitchen told him which way to follow. He walked through the living room illuminated only by small red candles placed here and there on the shelves, creating a soft magical atmosphere. Arthur had this thing for candles that he couldn't understand. Misticism, occultism... He loved this mysterious non-exact Sciences for some weird reason. And candles... There was always a sweet, melliflous smell of wax in his house, which penetrated inside the nose swiftly and nestled there for days to form his best, blurry memory.

He smiled and stared sweetly at one of the candles. Its flame danced like a ballerina on the stage, paining but enjoying herself at the same time. His eyes roamed around hungrily. He remembered every detail of that room. The couch, the table, the scent of incens... the sufferance hidden in that house. He could feel it. He could smell it. He was part of it, too.

"Francis!" Arthur left the kitchen to dash to the Frenchman with a bright smile on his face. "Why didn't you tell me you would come this early? Didn't I tell you to text me?"

"Where's your mobile, Arthur?" Francis replied in a mocking tone, taking his hand and dragging him nearer.

"Uh... Somewhere?" Arthur's face showed clear ignorance, but also a certain unsureness. Francis was too serious, even if Arthur was now letting him kiss his cheeks twice, debating with himself if replying sarcastically on how disgusting it felt to have his lips on his skin or not.

"Do you have to kiss me twice every single time?" Arthur stated in wiping his face. He wiped it much more than necessary, Francis noticed, but kept silent. Some things were better not to be said. Not after what had happened.

"Hey, it's my culture! Two kisses mean good friendship!" He winked and went to the kitchen, but suddenly he stopped after a few steps. His eyes fell on a photo of them taken some years ago, it was already after University. He remembered that day very well, when they decided to meet in Paris to celebrate their future entrance in the world of the working grown-ups. Pointing at it, he turned to the other blond.

"What?" Arthur asked glancing at the picture. "Well, it's one of our best moments. I'm even sober in this one!" He remarked quite proudly. Drinking wasn't a problem back then, he thought with a light bitterness.

"You should be sober in every picture. Which you're not." He glanced at his friend, who made a sorry face so as to ask for pardon. "We've been friends for, what? Twenty years?" He asked sadly, not really paying attention to the question. Time flew so rapidly, that he had lost count of the days they had spent together.

"More or less." He patted his shoulder friendly on walking up to him. "We're old, frog."

"Our friendship makes me old." He turned abruptly to walk into the modern, bright kitchen.

"What did you expect, to live forever?" He leant to the door frame folding his arms as the Frenchman stopped, sighing.

"_Non_, but..." his head rolled to the side to let their eyes met. Time has really gone by, he thought. And yet, they were still the same two young men. Still the same, still alone. "Arthur, wouldn't you like to have someone... someone to share the rest of your life with?" His eyes were full of sadness as the words left the bottom of his heart. Always the sme question. Arthur was afraid Francis would never get through that loss, but what could he do? It wasn't so easy to find someone to share the rest of your life with. Not for the two of them, at least. He kept silent, lowering his eyes. They stayed like silent sad statues with their mouth closed and their breath calm for some tragic, endless moments, until Francis let out a small sigh. As he opened his arms, Arthur walked in the sweet embrace and wrapped his own arms around his waist, holding him tightly like he was afraid he would leave. He brushed his cheek on his shoulder and closed his eyes, but his hands were grasping at the fabric of the other's shirt. A small tear ran down his red face as the Frenchman breathed on his neck.

"_Desolé._.."

Arthur shook his head, sobbing uncontrollably. "It's not your fault, git." And with this he hugged even more tightly his blond friend. No matter how much he tried not to think about it, the past was still chasing them with his black laugh. Memories, strong memories hunting them and never letting go... Two friends, two girlfriends, two brides, two houses, two cars, an accident, a funeral, a divorce and then two friends, still, but alone. And all he could remember was a flash of her smile and a wave of her black dress. It was raining, that day.

Arthur pushed away as soon as he felt the coldness of the rain soak his brain and silently walked to the wooden table without looking up. He let himself drop on the chair before slowly turning his head with a faint smile on his red face. "Let's make some dinner, shall we?" Francis replied with a similar smile and reached for an apron before opening the fridge. Much to his surprise, he found it somewhat full.

"What about some.. Pastaaaa!" He said cheerfully, imitating one of their best acquaitances. He wanted to wash away the sad look o Arthur's face for that evening, at least. He wanted it to disappear, to disappear forever. When they were together, he couldn't but wish happiness for the two of them.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't cook it." He shot back harshly. He loved teasing people, their angry faces made his sadistic side laugh really hard. And Francis', well, his expression was just unique.

The Frenchman started opening all the drawers to find some ingredients with a challenging smirk on his face. Cooking was what he did best and he would never let an Englishman tell him he couldn't boil some damned refined grain. "Where are the pots?"

" Pots? Here, but... What for?"

"Let's boil hot water."

* * *

A Frenchman and an Englishman cooking... pasta? MADNESS!

So, here you are the first Chapter. I do hope you enjoyed it and there's no need to say review are appreciated! For the ones who wonder: there's a reason why this fanfiction is rated M. Yes. THAT reason. ^^

I'm about to rewrite some of the parts in the first chapters. Why? Because it's fun. And educational. Or maybe I just want this to be a nice read. Pick the one you prefer^^ Thank you for reading and... Keep on!


	2. Friendship

A special thank you to all of you who are reading, and hopefully enjoying, this fan-fiction! A special thank you also to the owner of Hetalia, Hidekaz Himaruya, whose characters are just amazing as hell! And now a gigantic "Sorry" to apologize for my crappy English, I do hope it isn't too much of a pain to read this thanking you all,

-Zanteh

* * *

Français-English:

_Tais-toi: _Shut up

_Mais non, ça sera amusante : _But no, it'll be fun!

_n'est-ce pas : _Isn't it?

_Merde : _Shit!

_qu'est-ce que tu fais là? : _What are you doing there?

_Laisse-moi : _Let me go!

* * *

Friendship

"What are you- Francis!" Arthur yelled when the Frenchman poured some tap water inside the white china pot.

"Arthur, _tais-toi!_ There's an artist working!" He replied smirking knowingly, to which the Englishman offered a lovely grunt. Folding his arms angrily, he sat down fuming.

Francis gave him a pitiful look and mocked walking towards him. "Aw, is my little Brit angry now?"

"Shut. It." Arthur growled back.

"Want to help?" He saw the Brit's eyes shining bright at the offer, while a wide smile drew his way on his joyous face as soon as he walked towards the Frenchman.

"Are you joking, right?" But all in his look hoped to be wrong.

"_Mais non, ça sera amusante_! Me cooking and you swearing. And in the end the house burning to the basement." He chuckled as his companion punched his arm, growling.

"I'm not THAT bad!" He shouted, scowling.

"You don't keep poison near sugar, _n'est-ce pas_?" And with a swirl to the side he avoided a well-aimed kick.

"Let me hit you, bastard!" He yelled throwing a teacup at Francis, who shifted into the living room and, swinging his hips to avoid the chairs around the table, ran to the corridor and up the stairs, followed by an angry Englishman and his evil spatula. Soon he was on the first floor and entered the bathroom.

"FRANCIS!" He shouted in resignation, banging at the bathroom door as the other locked himself inside. "FRANCIS, DAMMIT! OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN IT!"

Leaning to the door, he smiled and replied almost singing. "But if I let you in, you will hurt me... And Francis doesn't want to be hurt by a bad bad Arthur!"

Silence. The sound of steps running down the stairs. A drawer opening. The tingling of... Keys? _Merde, _he's got another key! Francis looked around desperately when suddenly his gaze met... a closet! Sliding to one of its sides, he pushed it in front of the door. Yet, it wasn't enough to stop the Englishman. A chair! He placed it well embedded between the closet and the sink. And then? Towels! He put them on and under the closet to prevent it from slipping, but still it wasn't enough. Arthur would rather destroy all with a chainsaw, himself included, instead of giving up his prey. The sound of a key unlocking, a door screeching, a small footstep, he was there, he was coming, he was...

"What the-?" Francis yelped as he heard a shocked voice coming from the mirror wall behind him. He screamed in terror and ran towards the bath tube to get some shampoos. He threw them madly against the mirror along with a couple of towels and some sponges, opening the fullest ones and squeezing them with all his strength.

Arthur raised his arms in order to protect himself and get closer without damage. Unsuccessfully. Hit by a mint-perfumed soap, his rage reached incredibly high levels and he balked on wildly, pinning the Frenchman to the wall. Francis struggled to gain freedom, but he was trapped like a bird in a cage under the breath of an English cat.

"_Laisse-moi laisse-moi laisse-moi_!"

"Grrrrr- Ow!" Arthur bent down as Francis kicked his shinbone and jumped to the side into the bath tube, reaching for some more sponges and soaps to throw at the enemy.

"You bloody-" Arthur clenched his fists and stared at him madly.

"Don't you dare getting any closer! DON'T YOU DARE GETTING ANY CLOSER!" Francis shouted terrified, holding the handle of the shower head in front of him, trembling for the tension.

"You'll be drowning in your own blood, you sodding gi-" Water. Cold water, in his face, down his chest, soaking his clothes and making him angrier. Shouting savagely, Arthur jumped on Francis, twirled his wrist and directed the jet towards his heart.

"DIE, BASTARD! DIIEEEE!" He screamed as the water splashed all over the other's chest, wetting his clothes as his breath died in a long and desperate "Nooooooooo!".

"Yes! YES! DIE, YOU BASTARD! DIE! THIS IS MY REVENGE! THIS. IS. ENGLLAAAAAAAAAND!" He screamed crazily raising his arms to the sky and shouting out his joy in a long victorious "WOOOOOOOOO!".

"Arthur?" But Arthur didn't listen, too busy celebrating his victory. "Weee are the chaaampiioooons, my frieeeend! laa laaaaa! Weeeeeeeeeee keep on fightiiing till the eeeeeeeeend lalalalalaaaaaaaala! We are the chaaaaampiooons! We are the chaaaaampions! No-GAH! What the-?" Arthur looked down covering his face with his hands only to see a doused Frenchman staring at him with a shower head in his hands and a look of disbelief in his face. Their gazes met in silence before wandering slowly along their drench bodies.

Arthur was straddling him, dripping water on his wet shirt, whereas Francis, laying down utterly confused, was looking at him with raised eyebrows. Their eyes met, their cheeks burned, their lips curved and they bursted out laughing. Everywhere in the house was filled with their loud glee.

Friendship. Doesn't it mean being stupid together?

* * *

Who wouldn't want a friend like them?


	3. Dark rain

_Français-English:_

_Hé, Bien. -_Well...

_Arrête – _Stop!

_S'il te plait! -_ Please!

_Cherche-moi –_ Look for me!

_Sourcils - _Eyebrows /I couldn't resist)

_Mon amaaaaant! Dans la cuisiiiine_ – My love, in the kitchen!

**Notting Hill Carnival_** a popular celebration in Notting Hill (London).

* * *

**Dark rain**

"_Hé, Bien._.. At least our hands are clean now!" Francis said with a content smile on his bright face.

"Hands?"Asked Arthur with a puzzled look on his still wet face, reaching for two soft towels abandoned on the slippery floor. He handed one to Francis, who took it from his hands and started drying himself.

"Well, sorry, but what do you think I was doing in the bathroom?" He asked rubbing his hair.

Arthur gave a quick glance around. "Dunno... Rearranging my furniture?"

Chuckling at the answer, Francis raised himself up on his elbows as Arthur stepped out of the bath tube, offering his tended hand to his good friend. As Francis reached for it, Arthur pulled hard to lift him up, but their slippery hands divided only to let him bump on the floor.

"Ouch!"

"_Aie!__" _Echoed Francis.

"Aie? Couldn't you say something manlier?" Arthur almost yelled as he tried to stand up again.

Snorting, Francis replied lifting himself up. "Aie is a perfect exclamation to express pain. At least I don't growl like a grumpy granny!"

"I don't growl like a granny!" Arthur complained offended, brushing some invisible dust off his doused shirt.

"Certainly not, my fair lady!" Francis dodged the soaked shirt thrown at him and went out from the bath tube, following Arthur into the mirror. The dark passage led directly to his bedroom, popping out from a picture of Arthur dressed like during the Victorian Era. Notting Hill Carnival, maybe? He knew his small house was full of this kind of tricks, but it was always quite awkward and weird to discover a new one.

"May I ask why there is a corridor connecting these two rooms?"

"Alfred."

Silence.

While Francis made himself comfortable on the crimson red armchair, Arthur opened his giant wardrobe to get some warm clothes. He didn't hear the other sighing and look sorrily at the hole behind the picture.

"Any problems in wearing a T-shirt, Mr. Fashion?" He was asked from behind the black wooden wardrobe door.

Francis, still admiring the blood-coloured room with a pleased smile on his face, shook his head slightly. "I would go around in the nude if I didn't know you could get jealous."

With a light blush creeping on his cheeks, Arthur turned to throw a random black T-shirt at his friend's grinning face.

"Stop giggling!" He growled. But Francis' giggle turned into a snicker which shifted fast to a heartedly laugh as Arthur kept on throwing clothes at him, getting redder and redder as his blood boiled. Soon the drawer was empty and his hands could feel the cold wood under his palms. Narrowing his eyes at the Frenchman doubling up with laughter, Arthur stomped forward to the armchair just to stop in front of his jolly companion with his hands arisen. A strange smirk drew his evil way on his burning face as suddenly his hands went down to tickle.

Yelping and twisting even more, Francis fell off the armchair and started rolling on the black fitted carpet to the crimson-red bed to get free from the torture. Kneeling down, Arthur followed him, shifting his wiggly fingers from his abs to his armpits and then up to his neck and then down to his chest and then down again, getting pleasure from his desperate pleas to stop. "Ahahah- _Arrête! Arrête_! Ahahahah! _S'il te plait! __S'il te plait__!_!" Francis begged swirling from side to side, unable to stop laughing. But Arthur was too delighted to stop and kept on moving back and forth quickly, following him as he crept under his bed.

He took a hold of his foot and pulled it hard, but Francis was already half-hidden in the dusty darkness and his hands weren't going to release their clasp on the springs. With many efforts, he pushed himself more and more into the obscure dirt until he was free like a mouse.

"Ah-ah!" His happy voice smiled from the eternal night. "You won't torture me any more, _sourcils! _And... Woah, what's that? Ohohoh, naughty Artie!"

Getting redder at the sound of paper unfolding, Arthur ran to the other side of the bed, knelt down and sticking his head to the floor, he raised the sheets to face his enemy, but it was too dark under there to see his face properly. "Francis-! Come here!" Rubbing his fingers together he mocked childishly. "Francis, look! I've got cheese!"

"But I've got porn! And what porn..." His voice trailed off in the dark. He couldn't see very well, but he was sure the magazines he was holding weren't much cleaner than is surroundings. And what was it? An iron case? An iron case... Ohohoh!

The Brit sighed. "What a randy little mouse you are..." Francis smiled under the bed before squeaking.

"Eek! Eek! I'm a mouse! A randy little mouse! And I've got a photo of you dressed like a Rio dancer!"

"What have you-?" Madly angry, Arthur crept under the bed himself, noticed by Francis who rolled and escaped from the other side and ran out from the bedroom to go hide himself in another room. Still blided by his rage, it wasn't too difficult for Arthur to get out of the obscure dirt under his bed, before yelling, stomping out of the room.

"Francis, you bloody frog, where are you?"

"_Cherche-moi_!"

Arthur growled in despair, put on a random grey T-shirt and started searching. Opening the doors with well-aimed kicks, all squeaked under his angry touch. But then he came to the end of the corridor, where an old sign was hanging, half covered with mould and loneliness. Alfred.

Arthur stopped and leaned against the nearby wall. He so hoped Francis didn't get in there. He didn't want anyone to get in there. That was his brother's room, his little brother's room, his...

"_Mon amaaaaant! Dans la cuisiiiine!"_

The kitchen? Oh, yes, how could he forget! The water was boiling by the time. He left sighing, giving a last glance at that closed door. It has been closed for years now. His brother was in America, probably. Yes, and he was being successful. No wonder he hadn't written in... what? Two, three years? No wonder he probably had already got married to some young sexy chick, and he was probably already working, he had an home there, he...

"Arthur, stop thinking. It's bad for you." Francis warned sweetly.

"How can it be that bad?" He raised his gaze, but Francis was too busy looking for a frying pan to pay him attention. "Francis, why does it hurt so much?" But Francis didn't answer, he took a long knife from the white drawer and placed it on the table. "Francis, please, answer me! Why? Why does it hurt so much to be alone?" Arthur begged with watery eyes, but Francis opened the fridge to take some onions and tomatoes and placed them as well in a bowl full of water on the table, reaching for a dish in the cupboard. "F-Francis..." Arthur looked down sadly.

"Here." The Frenchman handed him the knife coldly.

"W-What?" Arthur stared at the sharp blade which reflected the few drops already running down his cheeks.

"Take it." He stated seriously. Arthur obeyed and grabbed it. The shining knife made a strange impression on him. How much time had passed? Eight, ten years? Since when had he been alone? The house was so empty now, with no voices, no running of kids, no woman to chat after work, no friend to boast with. Suddenly, he felt a push behind his back and he moved forward to the table. He looked back to see Francis' icy eyes glimmering with sadness. As soon as he turned he could see all the ingredients in front of him on the table. Only Francis didn't left.

"Fran-"

Francis silenced him with a frosty glare and then started. "Now, this is a tomato." He took a tomato and placed it in the dish in front of them. Taking his hands in his own, they sliced it into two perfect halves. "Good. You've just cut a tomato in two."

Arthur bowed his head down as a faint smile appeared on his face. Then he looked up again, staring at their divided tomato.

"It looks like it's bleeding."

Francis stirred. No, it wasn't bleeding. They didn't kill it. And yet, an incredible pity took over his soul as he leaned down to embrace Arthur, to protect him, to save him. He could feel the darkness all around him, piercing through him, the loneliness slowly eating up his mind. And the silence, the protective, yet devious silence he had to live with as a selfish companion. But now their hearts were beating as fast as the rain pouring outside.

And so they hugged silently, leaning on each other's shoulder.

* * *

End Ch.3

Yes, this is the classical WTF-chapter every story has. Because we need this chapters! We hate them with passion, but we can't keep on without them! Anyway, it only purpose was to annoy you. To the next one!


	4. French ballet

**French ballet**

Francis breathed slowly in Arthur's sandy hair. It smelled like peach flowers, and spring. And sun, fresh rain, and green leaves and happy afternoon and good companies and tea, whisky, gin, long nights and endless skies. He kissed his hair and straightened up his back. Arthur turned slowly in his arms and wrapped his arms around him caressing the cotton of his black T-shirt, his waist, his back, leaning against his head against his chest. He rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric and sighed. The other's arms protected him carefully, while his hands were stroking his hair gently. Arthur moved his head to the side to face his taller friend. He smiled faintly and with closed eyes, he turned again in their embrace with new strength in his body. Looking back with eyes glistening with gratitude, he spoke softly.

"Let's murder something else, shall we?" A smile danced on his lips.

Francis took the tomato halves in his hands and directing the other's hands, they sliced it vertically and horizontally into small red cubes. Raising his head, Arthur grinned satisfied. He had cut something without cutting himself. _That was remarkable, Arthur. Really, you might even manage to cook something all by yourself!_ He thought tilting his head from side to side.

Smiling gladly, Francis reached for an onion and guided their fingers along the blade, then, pressing hard, they peeled it until it was reduced to a white smelly globe. Returning the hands to the light wooden handle, they chopped it, enjoying the pungent smell.

Pressing his body against Arthur's back, Francis stretched to reach for a frying pan, which he then placed to their side. Holding his friend's hand in his own, they both clenched the white china jug and poured golden oil into the pan. After carefully putting it down, their fingers moved to hold the glimmering chopped onion in their hands heedfully like it was new found gold and let it drop like silver rain into its oil bath.

Now their hands moved together to hold the green plastic handle and together they danced backwards to accompany it to the cooker. Their gaze moved from the cooktop to the gas handle, turned with a firm movement. The warm heat hit their faces, but Francis couldn't see Arthur's was already burning.

Waltzing to a drawer, they looked for a plastic bowl and got it in their hands, they shifted together to the table to place it down and fill it with some tomato cubes. Glancing to his watch, Francis directed them both to the stove where the pot full of boiling water fumed.

Reaching for a fork, he stretched his arm forward and bathed it into the hot water to let it emerge after a few seconds, holding a couple of golden spaghetti thin like angel's hair. His hands slowly moved to the Englishman's face, stopping a few inches away from his lips.

"Blow."

Arthur kept stiff. Yet, when Francis tilted his head to the side slightly concerned, he let out a soft blow. Behind him, he could hear his lips pursing into a glad smile.

"Taste it." He ordered gently, moving his hand forward. Arthur couldn't help opening his mouth and let the bland taste invade his senses. He sucked on the golden strings to have them all in his mouth, sighing deeply at the plain flavour.

"Ready?"

Ready? He really didn't know. For him, he could've lived on that only one pot, but Francis, Francis was used to high French cuisine. Reaching for the silver fork himself, he immersed it in the steaming hot liquid, almost burning his pale fingers. After many efforts he managed to get a sun-coloured string and turning carefully to face his companion he offered him his prey. Francis furrowed his eyebrows in surprise, but accepted the gift. He blew on the other's hand and took the fork head in his mouth greedily. Munching silently his face wriggled in a grimace, pushing his lips back and forth, then to the left, then to the right and in the end forward again, he let them form a smirking stain on his face.

Smiling brightly, Arthur turned again and raised his hands to fit together with Francis' in order to be puppeted again. They moved them together to put down the fork, close the gas, handle the pot, pour the salty water into the colander and the pasta into the frying pan. Adding the left tomato cubes, they quickly mixed it all together with a long wooden spoon. Then, clenching the plastic handle, they danced to the table and blended all into a hot mixture.

Trembling with excitement, Arthur stared contently at the steaming mass under his eyes, when Francis entangled his fingers with his own and moved them to get the fork and the spoon each in one hand. Diving the silver utensils into the heated steam, they mingled together all the ingredients until it turned into a red golden mixture.

Leaving them into the bowl, Francis guided Arthur to take two porcelain plates and placed them on the table. Then, handling the two utensils, they served each other a half of the mixture. Emptied the bowl, they placed it with the other forgotten items in the sink and opened a drawer to get a couple of forks, another one for two napkins, the cupboard for two glasses and the fridge for two beers.

Shifting back to a seat, they pulled out a chair gently and dancing slowly around it, Arthur sat down and let the pleasurable warmth of Francis' palms leave the back of his hands.

* * *

End Chapter 4 - Short, but intense.

By the way, if you're wondering: Francis added salt when the water was boiling and added pasta afterwards. This doesn't take much time if the water is already steaming hot, that's why when Arthur climbed down the stairs they didn't need to do that. Moreover, if you're wondering why Arthur's fridge is somewhat full, it'll be said in the next chapter. Thank you :* And why this recipe? Well, that's what I'm cooking tonight! ^^


	5. Time Warp

**Authot's note:**

This chapters revolves around Arthur and Francis' conversation. The action is basically their constant talking, as if it was a script for theatre. Why so? Well, since my purpose is to create complete and complicated characters, this is just a different way to meet them: having dinner together, making fun of each other. Enjoy!

* * *

**_Français-English:_**

_Chéri_ – tenderly beloved one

_Nenni – _No (I read Nenni in fairy tales. It is just like Non, but in Old French. I'm using it because I like it. So STFU.)

_Hé bien – Oh, well._

_Bonnefois – _I chose to write it BonneFOIS as with this writing in French it would mean: Francis Good-Time. Which is great when you hear a certain Queen's song. XD

_Merci _– Thank you

_Mais mon amour: but my love_

_Je le savais! : I knew it!_

_Tais-toi – shut up_

_Soho -_It's the quarter in the centre of London, where there's the National Gallery. It's on the left side of the Thames if you're looking for it in a map.

* * *

**Time Warp**

Francis looked at him with shiny blue eyes and walked to his own seat, followed by Arthur's grateful gaze. Adjusting the chair, Francis raised his azure globes as a sweet smile appeared on his face. After placing his opened napkin on his tights, he reached for a fork and directed his curious gaze into Arthur's staring emerald eyes.

Blushing at the other's honey smile, he glanced down and grabbed a fork himself, using it to cut the crimson pasta into little worms. Francis furrowed and chuckled.

Raising an eyebrow slowly, Arthur's eyes shifted from his friend's grinning face to his plate. Yet, somewhat annoyed, he kept on chopping.

Francis mocked laughing lightly. Arthur stopped to look down at his dish. Using his fork as a spoon, he managed to put part of the food in his mouth. And tasted. And munched. And smirked.

"THIS is delicious!" He stated pointing to his plate.

Francis grinned happily. "Of course, since I cooked it." And rolled some pasta on his fork. Noticing the weird gesture, Arthur blinked. Smiling, he added. "And please, _chéri_, learn how to eat." With much grace, he raised the fork and bit his meal.

"First, WE cooked it. And second... How the hell do you do that?" Arthur remarked curiously. _Why do I always have to ask him to teach me anything, dammit! _He thought lowering his eyes, glancing at the parquet.

Francis' smile widened into a joyful beam as he shifted his fork back to his plate and used it to move some pasta aside to form a little ruby hill. He then pierced through it with the silver item and started rolling, turning the flat shiny handle between his thumb and his second and third fingers fast until the red strings were tightly tying the chiseled fork. With a light charming pressure he lift the spotted object to be elegantly suspended between his thumb and his finger and glided to his fine mouth. Parting his red-rose lips, he blew softly on it and caged it into his warm mouth.

A swallow, a cough, a blush and a glance after, Arthur met his gaze and holding his own fork like a blessed sword, he dove it into the messy dish. Trying to unravel those entangled threads was unfortunately more difficult than expected, so he ended up rolling the whole sea of ruby strings around his small fork. Failing. The tawny strings crept like poisonous snakes up the fork to his hand, caressing his wrist with their bloody ends. Widening his eyes, the poor man instinctively raised his arm and shook it frantically, trying to get rid of the unexpected enemy. Leaving its prey, the evil fork fell to the floor with a shrill ting.

With his free hand the mad Englishman got rid of the red pasta still hanging on his fingers like they were covered in sticky webs. All with the annoying background of Francis' loud guffaw.

"Would you just shut UP?" Arthur growled cleaning his hand with his white napkin.

Trying to restrain his laughter by placing two hands in front of his mouth, Francis succeeded only in making his face turn redder and his eyes glossier before exploding again. "Ahahahah! The great British Empire hindered by... Pasta! PASTA! If I'd knew that I would've cooked it instead of baking baguettes!" And he kept on laughing, weeping a little.

Arthur pouted narrowing his eyes. Suddenly sliding his head to the side in a very aristocratic manner, closing his eyes he stated. "I hate you." Then, half-opening one of his eyes, he checked the other's reaction. Yet, he could only see a well-known smiling French face resting on two refined hands elegantly entangled together in a soft bridge. His azure-sky eyes were staring curiously at him, glistening like morning stars. His calm breathing was as delicate as his heart beat, no, softer, as he could hear his heart ruthlessly slamming against his ribcage.

Arthur blinked. Not realising he was mirroring his curious stare into the other's limpid globes, he tilted his head to the side, eating hungrily every small detail of the beautiful picture in front of him. Soon he had to unfold his arms for his heartbeat had increased so rapidly he couldn't bear his bumping against his forearms. He coughed. Embarrassed, he reached for a bottle of beer and noticing the top was still on, he removed it with a precise movement of his knife. Smiling slightly, he parted his lips and gulped it down decisively.

Fluttering his eyelids, Francis disentangled his fingers and graciously offered his friend his bottle. Smiling unsurely, he lowered his brows in request. Grasping the bottle, Arthur repeated the firm gesture and handed it back. With a slightly excited grin, he took it back and holding it from the small base, he poured some beer in his glass until the foam was about to glide out.

Looking askance at him, Arthur soughed. Gazing through his glass, Francis murmured. Eying up at him, Arthur mumbled. Staring more intensely, Francis whispered. Placing down his beers, they both squinted. Grinning at each other with a questioning look, they both asked. "Something to say?"

Letting out a small laugh, they both answered "Yes, about you."

Chuckling briefly, Arthur said "You first."

Recovering, Francis replied. "Ah-ah. You first."

"No, please. You're the guest, you speak first."

"_Oui_, but you're the host, then it's your turn."

"Don't be daft! C'me on, what did you want to say?"

"Nothing."

"Bollocks."

"Don't be rude, _mon chèr_." And he took another sip.

"I'm not being rude, dear."

"You are being rude."

"I'm NOT!" He roared.

Francis looked at him in amazement.

"Sorry."

He smirked. "For what?"

"For attacking you. Sorry."

"_Nenni._ That's nothing."

"Then what were you saying before?"

Francis' brows furrowed. "When?"

"Before."

"Before... when?"

"Before before. When you were drinking."

"Ah, that before." He thought a little. "Nothing."

Arthur kept silent. Francis grinned.

"But you said you were talking about me."

"_Hé bien,_ not everyone's talking about you, you selfish brat." He winked.

Arthur snorted incredulously. "Listen to who's talking!"

"Francis Bonnefois, at your service!"

"What kind of service?" He remarked raising an eyebrow.

"Any kind of services."

"Even doing my laundry?"

"And tidying your room, washing the dishes and fetching the groceries."

"Unbelievable." he exclaimed slouching in his chair. "And what's the price?"

"The price?" _Something you'll never give me._ He thought lowering his gaze.

Huffing, Arthur remarked. "Francis, I'm rooting! In two minutes birds will be flying over my head to build their nests, dammit! I expect you to feed them with some of your goddamn baguettes or I'll train them to beak you until you-"

"It'd be fun."

Arthur turned his head. "What?"

"You training the birds. I can imagine you all fussy and bastard shouting at them because they keep bathing in your tea. Not that the taste would change, but-"

"Don't you dare insult my tea!"

"Or what?"

"Or... or I won't pay you!"

Francis froze. "Arthur... you don't pay me."

Arthur sulked. "Well... If I did, you wouldn't be paid."

"_Ouais_, but just for today."

"No-no. Tomorrow, too."

"You're such a spoiled child."

"I'm not!" Blushing angrily, Arthur buried his head in his shoulder. "...It's your fault."

Francis exclaimed surprised. "But I did nothing!"

"It's your fault anyway!" Arthur claimed.

Silence fell between the two, when Francis replied. "My fault for what, exactly?"

Arthur looked away with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Your fault... for us now."

The quiet silence let Francis' mind allow a bad fantasy to creep in. "You don't like it?"

"What?" Arthur asked alarmed.

"You don't like me being here? With you?" he couldn't hide the sadness in his eyes.

"No! No! Not at all! What have you understood!" Arthur replied frightened, taking his trembling hands in his own. "I-I like when you're around, seriously!"

"You do?" His eyes already shining.

"Sure! Why would you be here, then?"

Francis smiled. "Dunno... Rearranging your furniture?"

"Nah, I would've called Ludwig." Arthur grinned.

"Thank you!" He said retiring his hands pretending to be offended.

"Not at all." Arthur smiled gentlemanly.

"Then why?" Francis teased.

"Mmmmh, let me think." And with that he stroke a thoughtful pose.

"You invite me and you even don't know why!" Francis played throwing his arms into the air. Then, pretending to blow his nose into the napkin he acted. "I'm sooooo mortified! _Maman_ told me: 'Don't marry Arthur, he's an Englishman, asshole by definition!' He's make you soooooo unhap-" As a flying napkin hit him and shut his mouth, Arthur performed:

"What a man have I married! He just sit there and drink wine all day!"

"Red wine, please!"

"Shut up, I'm playing! Where were we...? Ah, yes! And... Francis, stop laughing! You're ruining my play!"

"But I love when you say it!"

Arthur frowned. "Say what?"

Acting like a baritone, Francis replied. "'Where were we?' You're so funny when you say it!"

Arthur looked at him like a madman. "Francis... That's English..."

Francis smiled rolling his head to the side. "It is,... 'indeed'." He said with the same low voice.

Arthur sighed and placed a hand on his temples, shaking his head. "Why, why are we friends? Why?"

"Because you like me!"

"Neither a bit!"

"Awwww, come on! You know you like me! Everyone loves Frenchmen in the bottom of their heart... they just don't know they do!"

"Oh, poor things!" He mocked.

"They are! And they will never try real love... until they visit France, of course!"

Arthur gazed at him in wonder. _How can he be so... funny? Stupid? Cute? No, wait, not cute. But look at him now, isn't he lovely tilting his head from side to side boasting the wonders of his motherland? "_Francis, you're a git."

"_Merci_, Arthur! You never miss a chance to compliment on me, do you?"

"Arthur Kirkland without sarcasm?"

"MADNESS!" They stated together.

Chuckling, Francis asked. "Now, million Euros question."

Pretending to have headphones, Arthur reclined on the table. "I'm ready! I fear nothing! Ask me anything, baby, you'll get an answer!"

Francis laughed briefly before straightening up to speak like a quizmaster. "Ladies, welcome to our show!"

Arthur squinted. "Francis, there are also gentlemen!"

"_Mais mon amour_, you're the only one I need!" He teased. Arthur grumbled. "Now, here's the question! Why... is your fridge somewhat full?"

"Well, because..."

"Non-non-non! You have to choose! 1) God. Or Allah. Or Santa. Or one of your stupid faeries."

"They're not stupid!"

Francis raised his brows nodding slowly. "Oui. Eerr... Anyways. Any supernatural thing you may or mayn't believe in."

"No, this isn't bec-"

"I haven't finished!" He shouted. "2) You stole the fridge not knowing it was already full."

"Francis!"

"I know you kept wondering why it was so heavy, but _mon chèr,_ we normal people put food into fridges. You know it? Food."

"Francis, you're a bastard."

"I love you too" and smacking he sent him a kiss. "Now, the last one!"

"Thank you, whoever you are..."

"Arthur, don't pray Odin when I'm talking!"

"You're worse than a wife, you know?"

Francis smiled contently and drummed on the table. "Oooooh, _suspeeeence!"_

Arthur's look expressed a great, long and astonishing insult.

"Number 3! You're not Arthur. Then, who. Are. You.?"

Arthur laughed.

Francis jumped on the chair pointing at him. "_Je le savais!_ You're a-"

"But do you have cheese instead of a brain or you were born this way?"

"Hey, I've been fabulous since childhood!"

"Yes, living in a house without mirrors!"

"Oh, _tais-toi_!"

"Anyway, you asked about the food, right?"

Francis looked with interest in his eyes.

"Well, you know about the new art gallery in Soho, don't you? Last week Feliciano phoned me to get some tips on where to stay and I offered him to drop in and stay with me. Don't look at me like that, I felt alone and he's not as bad as you may think. Actually, he keeps good company. But he never closes his mouth, dammit! Anyway, he spent here a couple of days and you know what kind of guy he is, thankful for everything and so on, and so he brought me as much food as he could."

Francis smiled. "Typical of an Italian."

Arthur responded with another smile. "Well, what would you offer a foreigner, if not something of your country?"

Francis looked at the ceiling wondering. Then smiled. "You must be right. We're our country after all. Both what we are... and what we bring."

Arthur grinned satisfied. "I'm glad you agree." Then, glancing at his watch he stated. "Shall we go? The match is starting in what? Ten minutes?"

"Ten? Isn't it at 21?"

Arthur blinked.

Francis excused himself quickly. "Sorry... Anyway, wasn't it at 9?"

"No! It was at 8!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! You told me!"

"No-no, I told you at 9. I'd bet on that."

"Francis, Paris and London have different time zones..."

"Ops! Sorry... Forgot that."

Francis smiled, turned and collected the dirty dishes, placing them in the sink. He then bent to take the evil fork on the floor and placed it on top. Then turned and added. "But... that would make the Channel something like a time warp, wouldn't it?"

Arthur groaned. "No... not you too..."

"I mean, Arthur. What's the time on the Channel?"

"English Channel."

"_La Manche_. Anyway, what's the time there?" And so he rambled on, walking out of the room behind Arthur.

* * *

End Ch.5

Well, guys, Was it strange enough for you? A longer chapter with some dialogue and, well, I hope some nice jokes. Got any reference? xD


	6. The Match

**Author's note:**

My mates and I had a LOOOOOOONG discussion to decide what team would be better for those two. Now, here you have the reasons why these teams were selected:

**Arsenal FC,** also called "Gunners": "my football mate's and also my favourite English football team." European football. Not soccer. Football. Dammit, soccer reminds me of mice! Why not a world cup? Because it's spring and in spring there's the Champions, dammit! Other teams discussed: Liverpool, Manchester United.  
**Olympique de Marseille**- OM: my ex-bf's and my favourite French football team. And because I like thinking of Francis jumping up and down on the métro (subway, tube, métro... just pick one) chanting "Allez OM!". It makes me happy. Ahahahahah. Other teams: Paris-Saint Germaine, Saint-Etienne.  
The **original match** is inspired by an Arsenal-Tottenham match, because I needed hatred and vocabulary. But most of all, hatred. They hate each other with passion. Caaaan you feeeel that Angst tonight? Anyway, the **players** are real and approved. With thumbs up. So be happy, you've just learned something about football.  
**Heineken **beer is one of my favourite German beers. Don't touch my Germans or next time I cook pasta I'll use your blood instead of tomato sauce. Grrrrr.

* * *

Any other questions? I'll be glad to answer!

Français-English:

_Bonsoir, mon cher!: Good evening, my dear!_  
_Aux Armes, aux Armes_  
_Nous sommes les marseillais_  
_Et nous allons gagner_  
_Allez l'OM, allez l'OM!: To arms, we are the Marseillais and we're going to win! Go OM, Go OM!_  
_Marchez, mecs!: Run, guys!_  
_S'il te plait, mon Dieu, s'il te-: Please, God, please!_  
_Caisse-toi, Arthur! Va prendre une autre bière, conne. Bien froide, s'il te plait! : Fuck you, Arthur. Go and get another beer, loser. Icy cold, please!_  
_Mais je n'ai rien fait! Aie! Arthur!: But I did nothing! Ouch! Arthur!_

* * *

**The Match**

With an athletic jump, Arthur landed on the comfy sofa, reaching immediately for the large black remote control on the low light crystal table in front of the red couch. Positioning a small black pillow to his side, he hunched down with his elbows on his knees, turning on the telly with a swift movement. Francis walked over him, going on with his rambling. How did they end up talking about flowers? He didn't mind him blabbing, though. That house used to be so quiet that every small noise was gladly welcomed. And that strong French accented voice filled all its empty spaces with such glee, that he could've kept talking all night long without annoying the slightest. But now the giant screen was already illuminating the dark room speaking through the announcer's excited voice.

"Good evening, everybody!"

_"Bonsoir, mon cher!"_

Feeling his glance on him, Francis slouched on the sofa like it was swallowing him, stretching out his legs, when he noticed his friend's hand closing and opening strangely. Furrowing his brows, he gave a look around, suddenly stroke by the thought of what was missing. He sat up and ran out of the room, much to the other's surprise.

He heard the other shouting his name, as well as the announcers listing who was playing that night. Groaning at the formation choice, he climbed the stairs quickly, complaining quietly in his beloved French. At the sound of his footsteps Arthur turned away from the screen, just to find his companion grinning offering him a fresh beer.

"Missed me already?" He smiled taking the cold drink.

"I'm missing a good match, dammit." He whispered before gulping half the icy liquid.

"Arsenal: Almunia, Sagna, Campbell, Varmaelen, Clichy, Ebouè, Diaby, Denìlson, Rosicky, Bendtner, Nasri. Subs:-"

"Oh, come on! I didn't ask him to come over to sleep on my couch! I want a battle! Blood! Violence! I want this match to end with one of us madly angry throwing these damn pillows at the other! Be alive, dammit! Cheers." And he took a loud gulp.

"Cheers!" The other echoed happily, resting his head on the back of the couch. He chuckled softly as the camera shifted to Deschamps already red face. Yes, it would be a good match, after all. At least, he would have the nice view of Arthur's face grimacing now that the referee entered the stadium.

"Samir Nasri will attempt to fill Cesc Fabregas's size sixes tonight, with Abou Diaby and Denilson behind him in midfield supporting roles, and Emmanuel Eboue and Tomas Rosicky patrolling the flanks. Nicklas Bendtner will play alone up front. For Marseille, Lucho Gonzàles and Julien Rodriguez will man the touchlines to the right and left of central midfielders Benoit Cheyrou and Fabrice Abriel. Mamadou Niang and Fernando Morientes play upfront."

"What the hell?"

"Well, this is shit." They answered each other as the screen focused on the stadium, showing the different colourful advertisements, readily commented by the speaker. And here the northern Kop stood up to sing. And so did our Englishman.

"_And did those boots of Arsenal's team_  
_Walk upon Highbury's turf so green?_  
_And did they play with great esteem_  
_The best football we've ever seen?_

_And with a cannon on our chest_  
_We play with heart, mind, and zest_  
_And we are proud to be Arsenal_  
_In Victory Through Harmony."_

With his hand on his heart and water in his eyes, his voice chanted together with the hooligans, making the giant building tremble, before he sat down again to receive his friend's applauses.  
He glanced at him fiercely, snorting proudly as he heard him grinning repeating along with the other supporters.

"_Aux Armes, aux Armes_  
_Nous sommes les marseillais_  
_Et nous allons gagner_  
_Allez l'OM, allez l'OM!"_  
When the match started.

**1 min**: Arsenal kick off and Sol Campbell's first few touches are greeted by a crescendo of boos. He used to play for Tottenham, don't you know. Now their supporters hate him so much that they ... really wish he hadn't left.

"C'me on, you gits! Move those legs! This is Arsenal, you ain't frolicing through meadows!"  
"What are they waiting for a proper introduction? He has the ball, dammit!"

**2 min**: Arsenal win a corner, which is sent into the mixer from the right. The ball's flicked as far as Campbell, who sends a meaty header goalwards. It beats Riou, but Bonnart saves with his chest on the line.

_"Ouais! Marchez, mecs! Marchez!"_  
"What are you doing? Chasing butterflies? Run after that goddamn ball, dammit!"

**4 min**: I wonder if Bonnart is actually aware of the significance of this match? By all accounts, he doesn't like football, takes no interest in OM's opposition on any given day and never has any idea what competition they're even playing in when he lines up at the start of a match or traipses off at the end.

"What the fuck? Have you heard 'im? Bonnart takes it seriously, you imbécile! Keep on commenting and SHUT UP!" And he took another sip, sitting on the edge of the couch.

**6 min**: Rodriguez cuts in from the left wing before going down under a challenge in the D surrounding the Arsenal penalty area. He appeals for a free-kick but doesn't get one.

_"Merde_!" he took his head in his hands angrily, hearing the other shouting "Holy fuck!" twitching in his seat.

**7 min:**Rosicky and Eboue combine well down the left wing for Arsenal, with the former playing a give-and-go to the latter, only for the return pass to get lost in a forest of legs in the penalty area.

"Are they thinking they're at a tea party? It's a match, you bloody wankers! Show 'em what Arsenal's made of!" He shouted rolling his beer between his fingers.

**9 min:**Rodriguez takes on and beats Bakari Sagna down the left wing and gets his cross in. Clichy clears. The ball finds its way out to Gonzàles on the right wing and he sends in a cross for Niang to attack at the near post. His shot is blocked by a frantic Thomas Vermaelen lunge - corner for OM.

_"S'il te plait, mon Dieu, s'il te plait-"_

"Don't! Don't! Please, don't-"

**GOAL! Olympique de Marseille 1-0 Arsenal **(Gonzales 9 min) That's a sensational strike!

"WOOOOH-OHHH!" Francis jumped, fists in the air, screaming his pleasure to the ceiling before banging his head to the front almost hitting the low crystal table. Behind him Arthur punched the small pillow several times to release part of his anger, swearing but not so loudly as his friend's screams of joy. And the announcer kept talking.

"OM had a corner, which was sent in from the right by Abriel. Almunia punched it into the night sky, from where it dropped to Gonzales in the left channel. He sent it back with interest, rifling a left-footed volley over Almunia and under the crossbar from 35-40 yards out. Now we know what that secret weapon they were talking about is. Gonzales should retire now, because he's never going to top that if he plays for another 20 years."

"Shut the fuck up, that goal was amazing!" Francis stated shouting, his face red as he drank his beer.  
"Belt up, I'm trying to follow it!" Arthur roared angrily.  
"_Caisse-toi, Arthur! Va prendre une autre bière, conne. Bien froid, s'il te plait!"_  
"Shut it!" He growled as he dashed downstairs to satisfy his command. It was their rule: the one whose team scores first pays for the beer. Or go get it. You have to leave the telly screen anyways. And how much he hated leaving him upstairs during the Champions League...

**14 min**: That's a turn-up for the books and no mistake. Arsenal were on top, but have been left shell-shocked by that sucker-punch. It was an astonishingly good goal and Lucho Gonzales was mobbed by his astonished team-mates in the wake of scoring it.

"He was, _mon cher_. Hell if he was. Dammit, I should stop being around Arthur, I'm talking weird!"

**16 min**: Arsenal attack down the left flank again. They're dominating possession, but doing very little with it.

"Arthur, move your noble ass! Your team is angry!" He shouted, not noticing the other already entering with a box full of Heineken beers.  
"Drink and shut the fuck up, got it? And what the- Please don't tell me we're seriously watching this!" He complained breathing softly into the green bottle.

**18 min**: Arsenal have a problem.

"Fuck, what now?" But Francis eyes were shining.

Thomas Vermaelen goes down injured with what looks like a pulled calf muscle in his right leg. On the touchline, Arsene Wenger is fuming,

"And not only Wenger" the Frenchman added.

which is unsurprising seeing as he's going to have to press Mikael Silvestre into action. Arsenal substitution: Silvestre on, Vermaelen off.

**20 min**: Free-kick for Marseille, just inside their own half. Gabriel Heinze larrups the ball forward towards Rodriguez, who loses possession to Campbell. He clears.

"Right on, guys! Dammit, why Vermaelen? C'me on, we can still win!" He panted hoping.

**21 min**: Slaloming through the centre, Samir Nasri beats two OM defenders before pinging a diagonal pass out to Eboue on the right flank. He attempts to cross, but his effort is blocked.

"Fuck!"  
"You were right, _mon ami_! This match is totally worth watching!" He stated, his eyes glued to the screen.

**23 min**: OM concede a corner, which Arsenal take short. The ball is worked across to the right touchline, from where Eboue sends in a low cross that's eventually hacked clear by Heinze.

"God damn Argentina!"  
"_Tais-toi,_ Heinze is a great South American!"  
"Oh, please." He snorted, gritting his teeth at hearing his delight.

**24 min:**OM's defence gets stretched and Nasri threads a ball through their defence into the path of Bendtner. Offside, but not by much.

"Pass me a beer."  
Francis stretched his arm and reached for a bottle, drinking from his own at the same time.

**28 min:**Arsenal go close, but Nicklas Bendtner gets the ball trapped under his feet and eventually digs it out to scuff a shot wide from six yards.

"What the hell are you doing, Nicklas, you bloody git? Fuck it, I'm about to throw a washing machine to the telly."  
"Please, don't! I would die laughing!" Arthur glared. Git.

**29 min**: Arsenal win a throw-in in the OM half on the edge of the final third. Denilson chucks the ball to Clichy, who promptly gives it away.

"Clichy, go serve at the tables in some godforsaken pub and let some good player in, won't you?" The Brit growled resting his beer on his knee.

**31 min**: Good defending from Bonnart who defends ... good ... ly, going down in a tangle of arms and legs with Bakari Sagna as he shepherds, bundles both Arsenal full-back and ball out over the endline.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!"  
"Stop swearing, Arthur! You're even unsure about your religion!"  
"I'm not!"  
"You are! Anglicanism isn't a religion, it's a cake!"  
"A what?" His eyes turned to look at his friend like a madman, who smiled calmly and serenely.  
"A cake! And since the cake is a pie, the cake is a lie."  
"You sodding-!" Grabbing his helpful pillow he started hitting Francis repetitively, getting angrier as he kept on laughing, still watching the match.

**33 min**: The official takes down Abriel's name and waves his yellow card after the OM midfielder cynically blocks Sagna. From the ensuing free-kick, Arsenal win a corner, which Riou punches clear.

"_Allez OM!"_Francis shouted trying to protect himself with his arms, but Arthur just kept on slamming his weapon against his body in raging fury.

**35 min**: The first booking is swifly followed by the second. Denilson gets cautioned for a trip on goalscorer Gonzàles.

"Show us a good match, fuck! I'm even killing a Frenchman for you!" And he kept on hitting as the other laughed hard.

**36 min:**Now Rool's name goes in the book, unfairly, after Rosicky ran across his path as he cut inside from the left wing on a goalward charge. Rool didn't actually tackle him - Rosicky ran into him and fell over. Free-kick for Arsenal, 25 yards out, well left of centre.

"Yes! Good job, guys!" Arthur shouted, now standing on the sofa with his hands closed into fists.

**37 min**: Nothing comes of it.

"That's your fault!" And he hit Francis once again.  
"_Mais je n'ai rien fait! Aie! Arthur!" _He opened his hands to have a better shield for his head, trying to take the pillow away from him.

**38 min:**A rare sortie into the Arsenal box from OM, down the right flank. The ball is crossed and only half cleared to Rood on the right-hand side of the area. With Morientes unmarked at the far post and screaming for the ball, the right-back misplaces his pass and gifts possession to Almunia.

"Gimme 't!"  
"You give it!" They quarreled for the pillow as the match went on.

**39 min:**Abriel misses what looks like a sitter that would have put OM two up. Picking up the ball 25 yards from the Arsenal goal, he was ushered through by Silvestre, for reasons best known to the centre-half, rode a Gael Clichy challenge and found himself through on goal with only Almunia to beat. The goalkeeper was quick off his line however and got down early to smother the shot.

"MINE!" Arthur shouted, peering to the telly once in a while, but never losing hold of his prey.

**42 min:**With Nicklas Bendtner loitering on the edge of the penalty area, Gael Clichy has nobody to pass to after making a driving run into the Marseille box. He tries a shot, but hits the side netting.

Francis's foot pressed between the other's legs to add more force to his pulls, but this only made Arthur angrier.  
"Stop touching me!" He roared, twisting to the side and arching his back to add more force.

**Half-time**: Mark Clattenburg interrupts a game of head-tennis on the edge of the Marseille penalty area with the half-time whistle. OM goes in a goal up. On the balance of play they probably don't deserve to be winning, but considering they went ahead through a goal scored by such a pussy, who'd begrudge them their lead?

"Let me have it and I'll stop!" Francis replied. "Hey, half-time!"  
"NEVER! And- what? Already half-time?" He asked with disappointment in his voice. Turning, he could see a bright grin on his friend's face. Kneeling down on the sofa, he crawled over him trying to smother him, but it all ended with them giving small slaps to each other.

Those damn Hooligans.

* * *

End Ch. 6

Comments are appreciated ^^ Even if you're against those teams. Hey, the World Cup was just too cliché! We need more real beer-chugging man watching the Champions like it's SRS BZNZ!


	7. Pouring rain

THANK YOU to all of you who kept on reading, supporting and giving advices to this stupid lazy bum. I do appreciate every single word you wrote. Thank you.

WARNING: This chapter is extremely sad. Hey, these characters are going to walk a long path together, but my wild imagination says that a dive in the past isn't too bad. Boring? Long? It's their past. Everyone has a past, not everyone a future.

* * *

**Pouring Rain**

With a loud huff Arthur let his body drop on the empty half of his dark sofa, not minding the squeaking sound coming soon after. Resting his head on the arm, he retreated on his cushion, gazing at the colorful singing screen. Peeking from the corner of his eyes, Francis let a small smile appear on his face as soon as a slight sigh escaped his lips. Then the jingling monitor caught his attention once again.

Noticing he was no more spied, Arthur adjusted his position, planting his white socks in the Frenchman's lap. Frowning, but still trapped into the many advertisements, Francis merely pushed the other's feet away with the palm of his hand. Smirking, the Brit not only placed his cotton socks in his lap again, but he also turned completely to enjoy the sight of his annoyed friend. He was so hilarious, lifting his limps by catching his toes between his finger and thumb. And the way he sighed! He wasn't really bothered, quite amused, actually, but the determination in his eyes was the real reason why Arthur wouldn't stop being a nuisance.

When Francis turned, there was little anger on his face. It wasn't a threat, nor an intimidation the reason for the sparkling in his eyes. No, it was a well-known glimpse. He was tasting the bittersweet pleasure of the challenge, bit after bit. His malicious smile told Arthur so. Yet, Arthur just smirked back and reaching for a pillow, throw it against his enemy, who protected himself readily and attacked back. He balked on, pillow in hand, and pushed it hard on his foe's face.

They were in the middle of a furious struggle, when the light suddenly went off.

Jumping each one to one side of the couch, they listened to the pouring rain outside. _When did it start to rain? _That didn't matter, they perfectly know the weather in England was quite awful. But then, the violent brightness of a lightning entered the windows.

The lamps went on an off randomly, the TV rattled incoherently, the phone started shaking furiously and a thick smoke escape from the receiver. Outside, the rain whipped the windows hastily, while inside there was no more than madness.

Widening his eyes, Francis dug his nails into the soft pillow before screaming madly. Arthur shifted to him fast as he pressed the silk shield to his face to muffle his cries into its softness. Leaving him to run to the window, Arthur was shocked by the terrifying display of the lamppost falling to the ground like a dead puppet, along with some broken black strings. On the dark asphalt, the obscure cables started a wild dance, electricity sparkling in the night creating a devilish sight.

Scared for their lives, Arthur reached for his friend's hand and dragged him to the stairs and down, took their coats, his wallet, his mobile, the keys and out, into the car, and off, down the road, away from danger.

As soon as he felt safer, he called the police. Who would care if he was driving, it was an emergency. But the police disappointed him once again. "Electricity? That's not our problem. Contact the owner." Stupid privatization of resources. His house was about to be on fire! But of course, it was his house not theirs. Glancing to the seat next to him, he could see the weak frame of his friend being consumed by tragic memories. He swallowed hard, but it was like his throat had been pierced with thousands of needles. Trying to concentrate on the road in front of him, he couldn't but peek to the side from time to time. Yet, all he could see was the broken frame of a lonesome empty soul.

_Do you remember when we used to be happy?_

* * *

When was it? Many and many years ago, that's right. Right after our marriages. You used to shine with glee and joy and your bright smile never left your joyous face. You were truly happy back then, weren't you? I hadn't been so lucky, but you, you were sincerely happy with her.

Oh, I remember the times when we used to meet all together at your place. The way you whispered sweet love into her ears and how you could be the living soul of our parties. There was always a light on at yours', because you couldn't but share the immense gaiety that blessed your life. You had me meet your friends and to all of them said: "This is my lover, Arthur. He's quite rough and a bit of a bastard, but he's not too bad. He's worse.".

Old good times. The delicate perfume of your house, the voices eternally sweet, the company than never left. And your adorable wife, the woman you loved above all.

Until the night took her away.

It was in Normandy or Bretagne? I don't remember. We never recall such things. She was driving on the highway to get to you, as fast as she could. The lights at her sides, the night pitch dark, the rain on the windows, the lightening and she ran, she ran to her death as fast as she could. She pressed her foot on the accelerator despite the violent wind. She missed you, you had been away for days and she missed your soft voice, the heat of your breath, the touch of your skin. But her hopes faded away as the wheels slipped on the wet highway.

Your house was silent from that day on.

Parking the car in front of the hotel, Arthur put on his coat and covered the other's shoulders with his jacket. He was trembling, staring into emptiness with a blank expression on his emotionless face. Biting his lips, the younger blond distanced their bodies, but as soon as he reached for the handle, he heard the other's cold voice faltering a "Please, don't leave me alone."

Swallowing back tears, Arthur opened the door, but he felt the other grimacing in pain. Covering his head with his coat, he quickly ran to the other side of the car to help the other walk. They stumbled together into the warm hall of the hotel, limping to a receptionist.

The young men offering his services looked at them with utter disbelief -and clear disgust. But as soon as Arthur showed him money, he treated them with much more kindness. They talked briefly, exchanged keys, swapped money, a sign on a book and some information. The storm was getting increasingly violent and lots of people had decided to leave their houses to their destiny and look for serenity in the countryside just outside the town. Trees falling, power cuts, flooding were seen as normal consequences of such a furious weather.

Holding Francis' arm, which was still firmly gripping the silk pillow now covered in rain and tears, Arthur quickly walked to their rooms. Inserting the plastic card, he opened the light brown door and pressed the white switch on the wall to light up the room. He dragged his friend to the near bathroom, not caring when the jacket or pillow fell on the carpeted floor, before letting cold water stream out of the tap. He placed Francis' hands under the low-temperature liquid, before slowly turning the handle to make it get hotter.

He didn't look up, he wanted to, but he was afraid he would watch into two empty globes. The thought he would find his own opaque reflection into those lifeless orbs scared him too much. For now, he just wanted to stop the trembling. Once the water was warmer, he left his hands in the sink and went out of the room. His clothes weren't too wet, he could use them to sleep. Maybe not the trousers, for they had some stains that needed drying, but he still had his coat to cover his crumpled T-shirt in the morning. He glanced at his friend, noticing now that he was barefoot. He sighed as he didn't have the courage to watch at his own bunny slippers.

Leaving his coat hanging to the side of a chair, he took off his trousers and folded them neatly before placing them at the end of his chosen bed. He then walked to collect his friend's jacket and pillow, which were treated with the same kindness and carefully put next to his own clothes.

By the time he finished tidying up the room, Francis had left the bathroom to sit at the edge of the bed. Scratching his own shoulders, his elbows shielded him from the dull reality. Arthur headed to the bed, sitting next to him. Passing a hand behind his back, he slowly massaged his shoulders, looking into his void misty eyes. The kind contact relaxed the older blond, as his shield loosened and his hands fell between his legs. His eyes were still staring at blank spaces in front of them, but he seemed more relaxed now. Probably, because the rumble of the storm wasn't so noisy in that clean room, Arthur thought. He would never dare say it was his merit for anything.

* * *

Everybody left.

Some had problems at home, some couldn't because of work, some didn't have the money. In the end, Francis was left alone.

Arthur was the last to know. Being only a sad acquaintance, the news came to him too late. So late, that he missed the funeral. He had had another quarrel that day. His marriage was in the middle of a serious crisis and his wife threatened to leave him if he didn't change. Change what? He kept on asking. But she never answered.

She had just shouted she was ready to pack her bags and leave that "rotten gutter", the day the news arrived. When he saw her baggage prepared, he didn't say a word. Arthur never spoke too much. Words ruined everything. They spent a long, everlasting minute scrutinizing each other's eyes, when she finally asked. "Going to France, I suppose."

When she closed the last suitcase, Arthur shut the door behind his back.

There he found Francis, knelt down in front of his wife's grave. Tears were running down the cold tombstone as he scratched it with his bleeding fingers. He had been there for two days, they said, sobbing and crying in front of his love's corpse. No noise escaped his lips, no sound produced his crimson fingers, but the dreadful spectacle of his unhappiness could clench the heart of the marble statues surrounding him.

Love more than courage helped Arthur decide. He walked slowly but sternly towards the gravestone, stopping only in front of Francis. There, he posed a bouquet of white lilies and chrysanthemums, bowing to pray for the dead. Yet, he could see a more awful cadaver refusing to live leaning on that same tombstone.

He also knelt down on the small white rocks. They were cold and humid, kind of wet, but he didn't care. He breathed slowly, staring at the tragic show in front of him. Their chosen ones were now separated from them. Forever. They could no more love or hate them, just remember how beautiful it was when happiness blessed them with cheerful joy. But now there came the night. And so they spent their first evening crying miserably on their lonely grave.

* * *

Francis' head rested on his shoulder for infinite minutes. Many thoughts were racing in his head, some good, some bad, some serious, some dreadful. He thought of death. Oh, it was not unusual for him to think of Death. When he was young, he imagined it as something very far from reality, as it would not touch him until he was near the fatal hour himself. Unfortunately, he soon discovered that Death concerned him, too, as people he loved might die. He often wondered who would miss him, if he died. The only one he thought would was now a corpse herself. He was alone, then? Nobody would care if he disappeared. Nobody would cry on his tombstone, or bring flowers, or say a prayer, or remember him. More often he had imagined how he would die. Suicide was his first idea, because why living, when you've got nothing? And so he had thought of death before the "accident", as everyone sadistically enjoyed calling it.

Alone on that gravestone he had wished to die so many times, mixing his blood and his tears on his face. No-one would stop to comfort him, for the burden of his pain was too heavy. But then came Arthur. He knelt there and watched. He knew the small rocks were piercing through the flesh of his knees, yet he didn't move. He kept on staring at him, as he was waiting for something. He wasn't judging him or being merciful. He was just waiting.

Arthur was always a ghostly presence at their meetings. The woman he had married was no longer welcome into his house, for she had remarked evilly on their hospitality. But overall, she had always been nothing more than a pain to everyone. She hated his own wife, Francis always reminded himself, that's why he wasn't supposed to show her any affection or compassion. But Arthur, Arthur was always welcome. He had always suffered, poor soul. First his family, then his wife, then his friends, they all betrayed him some way. He had grown sad and scared, always suspicious, always alone. He talked little, but he always remarked brilliantly. It seemed to him to have some kind of elder brother's duty towards him, that's why he never left him alone in his house for too long, but he enjoyed taking him around. But now that he was looking at him so horribly disfigured by sufferance, how could he claim to be a Big Brother?

Only Arthur came to witness his pain.

As the night fell, he approached him, dried his tears with the hem of his shirt and covered him with his own coat, before helping him stand up and walk. He didn't say anything, Francis recalled. Just in his eyes there was a profound sadness and a small glowing hope. He drove them home, he remembered, and he also felt again the same miserable knife he could not take out of his ribs at the time.

Sounds. Luggage packing, shirts flowing, cluttering of glasses, zip closing echoed in his house. He didn't care what was going on, he didn't care at all. Now he was alone, without his love, without his heart, how could he keep on living? But Arthur forced him out of the house, closed the door behind his back and took him to London.

He was alone at home, but Francis didn't notice at first. Also Arthur didn't seem to notice. On the first day, Arthur had managed to have them sleep in the same room. Someone once told him that familiar loss might cause trauma or suicidal feelings, that's why he never wanted Francis to be on his own for too much time. A thing Francis discovered by reading his "Sent messages" once Arthur forgot to turn off his mobile. Francis just spent his day staring at the ceiling. He didn't move, he just stared at the yellowish paint, letting thousands of thoughts pervade his sombre mind.

At first, he refused eating. He wanted to die and eating seemed to him just a way to keep on suffering. All he wanted was to have his love back. He wanted to love again, but he could only see pain and destruction all around him. But this also hindered him the view of the efforts Arthur was making for him. He worked all day trying to be always there for him, trying to comfort him in any possible way. Arthur didn't cook for him, though. It was a young Chinese living nearby who offered to help them in exchange for little favors and financial help who had this task. When he was at work, Arthur used to phone him once or twice every hour. Sometimes Francis didn't answer, so he merely left a message in the answering machine. He didn't let the phone ring more than thrice, anyway. In the evening, he would sit next to him and read some novel or poetry, British and French, and he would always wait for him to fall asleep before laying himself, even though he was horribly tired. Francis couldn't see all this efforts, for his mind was caged into a web of lies. But one day it decided to open up a bit, as only loneliness would let its sickness develop.

It was a serene evening, the light wasn't too stingy or the temperature too low. Arthur was placing his plate in front of him, when Francis turned to look into his eyes. Arthur jumped back, but then let a small smile creep on his face. He needed to reassure him, not to scare him. The older blond put the warm blanket around his waist and sat composedly at the table, staring into his plate. Arthur offered him a spoon, which he immediately accepted. Silently, he allowed himself a spoonful of steaming-hot good soup.

It was strange, really. The warm liquid was so good even if so simple. _When was the last time I ate?_ He wondered. He soon realized he hadn't thanked Arthur for all his bother, but he could not let the words out of his throat. Yet, he found the courage to look up.

That evening, he noticed something new, something he had never seen before on Arthur's white face. He had true joy in his glowing green eyes. And that, that was the reason for him to keep on.

* * *

End Ch. 7

Hope. Want some?

*The author is much obliged to everyone leaving even a short review*


	8. Empty Words

Yes, the title's changed! Why? Because it's getting more serious than everyone I bet expected. And because the new title is way better than the previous one. And because we need some changings, so, go and change your panties NOW. Even if you're a boy. (I bet you like wearing panties, sweetheart *hurrr-hurrr*). Changed? Well, then, onto the next chapter!

I actually don't want to put a translation, as it would ruin the magic. Yet, if requested, my mind might be changed. And I do know I write a chapter once in a blue moon (I freackin' love this expression!), but please, don't send murdering mobs ever again to threaten my grandma. She scared them.

Oh! If anyone's wondering, Francis is reading "Le Petit Prince" (the little prince) by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Check it out, it's amazing =D

**

* * *

**

Empty Words

Lulled by Arthur's hand caressing his blonde locks, Francis soon fell slightly asleep on his comfortable shoulder. He wasn't trembling any more and his breath was more calm and soft. He felt so protected with Arthur near him, that his only worry was his deceiving mind and its terrible tricks. But now that he was gently pushed down onto that foreign bed by those warm thin hands, there was no trouble in the world.

Arthur gently took off his wet jeans before covering his body with the cosy blankets. Before walking to the bathroom to make another angry call, he sat by his friend's side, stroking his hair motherly. Once he was sure the other had fallen into a deep slumber, he got up, took in a deep breath, reached for his mobile and got ready for the show.

He had quite a hard time phoning first his neighbours, then the police and in the end the electric company, but in the end he managed to get as many information as possible. His house was still where they left it, fortunately, and maybe some appliances would still work. He had heard some people living nearby could use electricity no more, or at least until the cables would be repaired. But that is life. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it's hard. You just have to be harder.

With this thought in his head, Arthur washed his face with some cool water before leaving the bathroom and turning off the lights. _Yeah, Life is hard. You just have to be harder._ His mind was still grasping the bright discovery, when his eyes fell on the sleeping figure in the bed next to his.

A sudden dreary feeling settled in his chest. His stomach was strangely empty and his breath came out in sighs. He couldn't explain to himself why his vision suddenly got blurry and a couple of warm tears rolled down his cheeks. He swallowed hard, whipped away the salty water escaping his eyes and scoffed at the sight of three small wet stains on his sleeve. Shaking his head to get rid of the bad thoughts, he reached his bed and dived into the suffocating sheets. He rolled from side to side, but he couldn't find the right position. The awful burden was still there in his chest, pressing down his lungs and shortening his breath.

His eyelids were pressed together so hard that they hurt, but he refused to let the sadness flew out. _Sleep_, he told himself, _tomorrow it'll be better_. But he believed this worn-out lie no more. Gritting his teeth, he let small transparent pearls leave his eyes and stain the pillow. He sobbed softly, clenching the cold cloth of the blankets underneath. No matter how hard he tried to swallow the bitterness he felt in his mouth, his throat was still sore and arid like it was full of sand.

A small groan saved him from himself. He quickly left the smothering bed to kneel down next to the sleeping blonde, hushing and sweetly humming on stroking the backside of his bigger hands. His head rocked from side to side, while his careful gaze roamed all over his shown body. Still lulling, he rested his head on his pillow, feeling its pleasurable warmth. He smiled kindly as he lifted his body to lay down next to the other's, still caressing his body.

Arthur never exposed his feelings freely. His fearful pride had always kept him from showing too much affection or care, especially through physical contact. But Francis was different. He attached so much importance to those little attentions, that refusing him some would be answered with unfriendliness and aggressiveness. It had taken time, but they had slowly grown used to each other's weird way of caring and acceptance. It was a hard contest getting Arthur to admit it, but he liked the small attentions he was given. Soon, he had learned to show the other the same friendly feelings. In his own odd way, of course. Yet, when no-one was looking, he also liked to sit down by his side and let his hands wander on him, feeling the silk skin of his body under his pads.

At first, he and his conscience had had a silent fight. Touching him? What if he had known? How would he react? No, he couldn't do that, he just couldn't. Fine, once he used to comb his hair, but they were kids at the time. What would he say if he found him sitting near him? It would be like... like showing him more than what he felt! And what if he had taken it the wrong way? He was Francis, for God's sake, he couldn't just throw their friendship away on such a stupid whim. What would they do, then? It was stupid, it was wrong, it was the worst thing to do! He didn't want to be misunderstood, but unfortunately, his mind didn't want to listen. Alone in that room, he spent his nights watching the other sleep, wondering how soft his skin could be. It happened then that one serene night, he let his pale fist unclench and his arm stretch to reach the other quivering body. _He was having a nightmare, he needed comfort_, was what he repeated mentally the days after. But the smooth heat he had felt wouldn't leave his pads. His fingers needed that warmth.

In spite of this, when Francis was awake, he couldn't but give him some quick glances on working around the house. A skinny body absorbed in his thoughts, ceaselessly staring at the same spot on the ceiling. His heart clenched at the sight, while his mind worked hard to find new ways of giving help. In the end, he managed to get himself to sit closer and closer to him every day. _Not to scare him,_ he said. Reaching out to caress was still too hard for him, for the time the silent blonde was awake. Yet, when he was sure he was lost in his sleep, Arthur let his fingers tangle with his golden locks gently.

Closing the distance between them helped both to recover. Francis slept more peacefully, oblivious to the kind caresses that calmed his troubled self and to the light simper his stillness brought to Arthur's face. Soon, he responded by turning his head to that source of gentle affection instinctively, sometimes smiling in his sleep.

The smile on his angelic face, that was something Arthur's heart welcomed joyfully. Even now, in that hotel room, it managed to calm him down. All his worry disappeared, now that they were close.

A yawn advised Arthur that he was about to fell asleep. He got up slowly and silently entered his bed, his eyes not losing contact with the other's frame. His lips were still pursued upwards, when the night offered rest to his tired body.

* * *

A guitar solo.

A quick movement, and the alarm stopped ringing. Actually, the mobile smashed on the grey carpeted floor, breaking into many little pieces, before the tune went off. Francis groaned. It was still so early! Sighing reluctantly, he drove his hands to rub his eyes open.

_Where am I?_ Was his first thought as he gave a quick glance around the room. Frowning, he lifted himself on his elbows, when he noticed someone moving in the bed next to his. Blinking, he stretched himself out to get a better look. _Arthur..._

Mumbling meaninglessly, he wrapped himself into his warm blanket, leaving out on the cool air his messy hair. Francis simpered. Reaching for his pillow, he sat up straight hugging it close, resting his chin in its comfortable softness. Breathing through the fabric, he stared at his sleeping friend, not daring coming closer. With Arthur, you never know. He might punch you in the face, rip off your intestines and hang you to the ceiling if you tried stealing his precious air, just imagine what he would do if you invaded his "personal space" without permission. _He just needs time_, Francis repeated himself. But the right time seemed never to come.

Arthur had always been suspicious of everything, human or not. _Like a true Brit_, he used to say, but with no pride in his words. His family surely taught him the value of disrespect and hatred. A strong soldier, a cruel assassin, a bright businessman, that's what his brothers aimed to be. Arthur... Arthur just wanted some peace.

* * *

"_Today, Arthur and I went to see the sea. The waves were so high! We met a weird kid there, but I can't remember his name..." _

"Alfred, straighten that back! How can you do your homework sat like that?" Arthur complained on washing the dishes. Fortunately, the old lady they were staying with liked his little brother enough to let him stay with her, too. They had managed to escape from London, away from their family and all their problems, by offering their help to a sweet old granny who couldn't do much around the house any more. She gave them food and a place where to stay in exchange for some little favours and reparations.

Alfred huffed annoyed. "Hey, Arthur!" He suddenly called.

"What?" He answered carelessly, keeping on with his chores.

"What about that boy?" Alfred replied curiously, rocking on his chair.

"What boy?" Was the uncaring answer.

"You know what boy! The weirdo you spent all afternoon trying to get what he was saying!" Alfred gesticulated, drumming his palms on the back of his chair.

"Oh, that boy. Nothing." He coldly shot back.

"Nothing?" Alfred questioned surprised.

"Yes, nothing." Arthur repeated calmly.

"But I liked him!" he shouted back.

"Alfred, don't shout."

Alfred looked hurt "But Arthur,..."

"No buts." Arthur kept silent for a moment before sighing. "Go back to your homework."

"But you seemed so happy with..."

"Homework." Arthur growled angrily. Intimidated, Alfred leant on his book and kept on writing.

"_I can't remember his name, but he must be a wizard -or a fairy, because he made big brother very happy. And big brother is never happy."_

–

_That afternoon... _

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and as Arthur had to go to the centre to do the shopping, the old lady gave them permission to spend some time at the beach. _Enjoy yourself for me, too!_ She had said on waving them goodbye.

Sitting on the rocks near the shore, Arthur was reading his little brother "Moby Dick", just to get him fall asleep. Alfred's eyes widened as he listened for possibly the ninth time the breathtaking end of his favourite book. As soon as he pronounced the fatal words "The End", Alfred stood up shouting "AWESOME!" and jumped happily on the sand repeating loudly all his favourite quotes.

Then he turned and pleaded with shining eyes. "Please, again!"

"No!" Arthur scoffed exhausted. "I've read this book so many times it makes me sick! No more Captain Achab for you!".

"Then read me something different!" The little blonde whined on pulling his white shirt.

"Agh. You never listen, do you? I couldn't bring many books because we had to buy lots of things!" Arthur explained.

"But..."

"Alfred, don't be such a child!" Arthur scolded.

"But I am a child!" Huffing, Alfred sat down with his legs crossed. Sighing, Arthur sat next to him, stroking his hair gently, trying to calm him.

"Sorry..." He whispered into his ear, before hugging him.

He mumbled and then said stubbornly. "We need a book."

Out of the blue a young blonde sat next to them with a little book in his hands. He took in a deep breath, opened the book and started reading.

_« Je demande pardon aux enfants d'avoir dédié ce livre à une grande personne. J'ai une excuse sérieuse : cette grande personne est le meilleur ami que j'ai au monde. J'ai une autre excuse : cette grande personne peut tout comprendre, même les livres pour enfants. J'ai une troisième excuse : __cette grande personne habite la France où elle a faim et froid. Elle a besoin d'être consolée. ... »_

And he kept on reading, not giving a damn about the younger boy's curious eyes exploring his face and body or his elder brother's utterly shocked expression. Alfred listened attentively, lulled by those sweet French words. Soon, he was leaning on him half-asleep, trying to follow the lines with his eyes.

As soon as he fell asleep, they silently stepped away, so as to exchange a few words without waking him up.

"Who are you?" Arthur roared angrily.

The other boy frowned. He didn't expect such resistance. Placing his opened hand on his chest he answered. "_Moi, je suis François. Ravi de te connaître._"

Arthur blinked. "What?"

English was still a foreign language for him, but he was determined not to give up. The little boy seemed better than anyone he had ever met and he would not let those stupid language barriers come between a possible friendship. Smirking, the taller blonde patted his chest with his hand. "_François. C'est mon nom._"

Not understanding, Arthur just twitched his eyes and took a step back, but the other was quick to take his hand in his own and drag him down on the dark sand. "What are you-?" He didn't have the time to finish the sentence, that the other had started writing with his fingers on the wet paper. Soon the word FRANÇOIS appeared on the sand. Pointing first to the name and then to himself, the blonde foreigner spoke again. "_François._"

Blinking as he understood, Arthur's gaze flickered from the word on the sand to the older boy next to him. Stretching his arm to a wet spot just to the side, Arthur quickly chiselled his name in the sand with his index. Once it was finished, he read it out loud. "Arthur." When he turned, it was welcomed by the other's pleased smile. _Why was that boy being so kind?_

Moving to face him, the golden-haired boy took his cheeks in his dirty hands, sent him a serious look, cleared his throat and stated seriously. "Arthur." He repeated, rolling the "r" on his tongue and accentuating the "u" like it was to dive from his lips. It was strange hearing his name said like that, but not that terrible at all.

Mirroring him, Arthur read his name once more before trying to say it, but his eyes slipped on the little sign under the "c", not recognizing it. _What's that? _He thought, before realising that the name the other boy had given as his didn't correspond to the letters he had written. Stretching out his hand to erase the letter he couldn't pronounce, he also rubbed out the "o" before it. The other just watched him curiously, not caring if he was ruining his work of art.

Once Arthur had finished correcting the blonde's mistakes, he shouted timidly. "Err...Francis?" Not so sure of what he had said, he peeked to the side to get the blonde's reaction. The other just blinked a few times before bursting out in laughter. He had expected the little Englander to be quite silly, but never this hilarious!

Slightly crossed, Arthur shouted. "Stop laughing! I said stop! Argh!" He threw his arms to the sky before crossing them before his chest and turning to face the sea. Huffing, he pouted, not giving the other the smallest glance.

In the meantime, the French boy had stopped laughing to observe him with the same curious, yet now kind of worried, eyes. Moving on his knees, he got next to him, his eyes never leaving his slightly red face. He smiled.

"_Arthur?"_ He said in his light high-pitched voice.

"What?" he growled.

Francis curved his lips trying to assimilate the tone of his voice. If he couldn't understand his words., he might at least try to communicate his feelings.

"What do you want?" He repeated, now turning to add more emphasis to his roar, but soon he realised that his language was meaningless for the other. Embarrassed, he glanced at the ground a few times, looking for the words he couldn't speak, when two pink hands folded his own. His eyes travelled up the boy's bronzed arms, the azure sleeves of his shirt, his delicate neck to his tilted face, where a small smile was still dancing. "What-?"

The other rocked his head to hush him. Gently, he moved both their hands towards the middle section between their names to draw a small heart. Arthur looked confused. Gazing at the other, he saw his eyes shining happily before shifting to his green globes. The little English boy just snarled and said. "I'm not your lover." And with a quick movement, he divided the small heart in two.

The blonde's smile fell. He blinked, frowned, sighed. In the end, a soft giggle escaped his lips. His questioning shiny eyes went back to Arthur, while his finger pointed to the divided heart. "_Ton cœur est vide."_ He affirmed with a challenging tone.

Maybe he didn't get the words, but it was like the other was daring him to answer. As he didn't respond, though, Francis moved to face him for the second time that afternoon. He cupped his hands in front of him and showed him his empty palms, saying. "_Vide."_ Arthur just watched. Retreating the fingers to the inside of his hands and opening them once again, he repeated "_Vide." _Then, reaching for some white sand, he showed the same hands, now full of glimmering dust. "_Plein." _He managed to close his hands again, but now the sand hindered his movement. Arthur observed curiously. Slowly opening his hands, the blonde boy let the sand fly into the thin air before cupping his hands once again. "_Vide."_ Arthur said. Beaming, Francis nodded.

"Empty..." He repeated, before his gaze shifted to the symbol between their names. "My heart is... empty..." He sadly said, when those same pink hands were driven above his heart's half and, slowly opening, let out a platinum stream, forming a small golden hill that cancelled every sign of separation.

Francis smiled. "_Plein."_

–

End Ch. 8


	9. Tiny Butterflies

**Bentley:** British car. Because in my wild imagination, Arthur either owns a Bentley, a Mini or a Volkswagen.

**Quotes**: I love you, Monthy Piton, Animaniacs, the Troll, The Killers, Oasis. I do love you.

Français – English:

_Maintenant, où est la batterie? :_Now, where's the battery?

Trouvée : found it!

Qu'est-ce que je vais dire maintenant? : What am I going to say now?

Touché: touched. When fencing, if you touch someone, you win one of the matches you're playing. To be touched therefore means: to lose against someone, to be cornered. To be f*cked up, in a more vulgar way.

_Rien. Il n'a fait rien et tu as quand meme le courage de l'accuser si violemment? _: Nothing. He did nothing to you and you still have the courage to accuse him so violently?

_Ne te preoccupe pas, Arthur. Au moins, j'ai toutes les autres accrochées sur le mur de ma chambre! Je les regarde chaque soir avant de me coucher... : _Don't worry, Arthur. At least, my wall is covered with the others. I look at them every night before sleeping.

Caisse-toi: Fuck you.

* * *

**Tiny Butterflies**

_Maintenant, où est la batterie?. _Francis thought on giving quick glances all around. In his hands he held the reassembled mobile, which one would've taken for just bought if it wasn't for the small scratches on its sides and black back. And the missing battery, of course. A sparkling label under the bed caught his attention. _Trouvée_! The thought hit his head as soon as his hand grabbed the missing item. Holding it like a precious treasure, he fast returned to his knees, staring at it challengingly.

"Sorry, but what do you think you're doing?" A slightly altered voice reached his ears. _Merde!_

"Er... Dusting?" He answered with an unsure smile on rocking his head slowly. From behind, Arthur could only see his golden-grain hair wave like the sea at sunshine. He wasn't angry, just curious. Bloody curious.

"With my mobile?" He cursed in his mind the light hint of annoyance enveloping his voice tone. He wasn't mad, just curious! Yet, _what the Hell was he doing with his mobile?_

_Qu'est-ce que je vais dire, maintenant? _"_Hé bien,_ the screen was almost illegible, thanks to your stupid fingerprints."He shot back timidly, without the intention of being offensive. Yet, the other's voice sounded kind of bothered.

"Was it? I didn't notice..." He softly spoke before adding. "But why were you looking at the screen?"

_Touché._ His mouth opened to say something, then closed, then opened again. No reply came to his mind. _Pourquoi étais-je-_

"Anyway." Arthur slowly sighed, before collapsing back onto the mattress. "What time is it?" He couldn't care less, yet seeing how Francis glanced at his own watch instead of lighting up the screen made him sure his mobile hadn't been violated. He had a password for everything in there, which made it quite impossible to enter and wander around his private virtual space.

Hearing his much calmer tone and the low thud of his body curling into the sheets, Francis gained enough courage to eventually turn and gift him with his lucid slightly pink eyes. Mumbling something about being late, _late for what?_, Francis thought, but didn't dare asking, Arthur stood up and walked to the few things they had brought along.

"Shall we go? We have to leave before noon." _Oh, right. _Leave the rooms before 12 AM or you will have to pay for another day. Stupid hotel rules.

Francis unwillingly raised himself from the floor and reached for his jacket. And the pillow. _Mon Dieu_, how much he loved that pillow! All soft and comfy and brave! Hugging it close to his chest, he carried it outside the room under Arthur's mocking stare.

"How old are you, again?" His eyes enjoying the childish behaviour of his long-haired friend.

"Still too young for you!" Was the witty reply as Francis dashed to the lift. A small smile had his way on Arthur's face. _Such a child..._

In no time, they were out of the hotel and heading to the car. Francis' front was all crippled by small wrinkles of annoyance, but Arthur couldn't say a thing, not until they were into the vehicle. Francis' hand couldn't reach the handle, that an amused voice spoke behind him."The other way, darling."

He huffed on stomping towards the other side of Arthur's green Bentley. "You Brits and your stupid reversed cars."

"Our cars aren't reversed, we just drive to the left!" Arthur replied slightly crossed. How many times, how many did they argue about that?

"Which isn't right!" The Frenchman said in a slightly high-pitched tone of annoyance. His brows were still furrowed when he slammed the door closed.

Arthur snarled, glaring. "Would you please stop acting like a spoiled brat?" He shot almost angrily.

Francis looked at him incredulously, before pointing to the hotel entrance. "Did you realise in what way they were looking at us? Just look at me! I'm around with this stained over-fitting tee-shirt, this cigarette jeans, no shoes on my feet and I don't even dare imagining what my hair looks like! That was so embarassing!" He pathetically explained, before jumping to the side to watch outside the window. "And all thanks to you." He hissed coldly.

Those words. There was no hate in them, he knew it, only annoyance, but they hurt him anyway. Why did he have to be so mean, so careless? Why couldn't he just stop attaching so much importance to the others' twisted opinion? He snarled before concentrating on driving. _Drama queen._

_Rien. Il n'a rien fait et tu as quand même le courage de l'accuser si violemment? _He chewed on his lips while watching the grey world outside. The noise of guilt buzzed in his ears like a bothersome bug. No matter how hard he tried to make it go away, it kept on flying near his ears with the same ceaseless monotonous buzz. The engine sang pretty much the same, trapped into the pitch darkness of the British car and the water still running out the manholes, the lampposts still glowing with yellowish light and the sky still covered with dark muddy clouds increased the heavy burden he already felt in his chest.

"_Hein.._." Francis called softly on slightly turning. "I'm sorry..."_ Like always._ He added in his mind. Arthur sighed and glanced at him briefly. When the hold on the steering wheel became less tight, Francis understood he had been forgiven.

"By the way, I approve of your tee-shirt." The Englishman stated calmly, like they had been chatting friendly till that moment. It was always like that between them. Fortunately, they only had small quarrels, sometimes an argument, but never something so serious that would make them break apart.

Always... Let's say since they've been knowing each other better. At first, they just sent letters to each other, trying to keep in touch even if the Channel separated them like a water barrier. Fortunately, there was always someone who would translate the other's handwriting into a better-known language. An English speaking cousin for Francis, the owner of the restaurant, the cleaning lady at the hotel, the aunt of a friend for Arthur. They had promised each other to write their own replies without the help of no-one, yet that made them unreadable for the other. It wasn't school that taught them French and English, well, not only, but their wish of understanding the other's words and the need to create a much closer and intimate relationship, which got them to read and study harder than anyone else.

Yet, the time went by and so did their childhood. Their letters became increasingly serious and detailed, complicated and passionate, till they started adding photos to them. Actually, it was Francis who started. They had exchanged pictures, sometimes even taken some during summer, when they met either on the English coast or in the French countryside, but never too many. Yet, for some mysterious reason, one day Francis sent him one. He was sitting, or better, slouching, on a modern white sofa, the kind Arthur had always seen only in posters and advertisements, dressed with a sparkling light-violet suit and dark ebanon-coloured shoes. A Swiss metal watch on his wrist, a crimson red tie around his neck, a silken bow tying down his hair. His half-lidded blue globes glimmering for his imaginary awing audience, staring at him in wonder. A dream.

Arthur couldn't describe what he felt at first, just a strange electrical sensation running along his spine, making him shudder not so pleasurably. _Arthur, are you okay? _Alfred had innocently asked as he had seen his beloved brother slightly shaking. He had tried answering, but his dry and pasty mouth didn't manage to move. When he succeded in catching is breath again, he was shocked at the strange request of the other. He wanted a picture of him himself. _Damn, stupid Frenchie and his stupid demands_! Arthur thoght at first, remembering he had no photos of his current self. Knowing he had to take one, but having no idea how to take a photo of himself, he asked Alfred for advice. _He might be little_, he always said, _but he is brilliant. _

"Wait here." He said, before sneaking out of the room to disappear in the darkness of the corridor. Two hours later, he reappeared with a camera in his hands. "Ain't I awesome?" He kept on asking as Arthur stared at him in amazement and worry.

"Is it stolen? Alfred, if you stole it, I swear-"

"No, no!" The small boy reassured, kind of scared by the threatening note in his brother's voice. "A friend of mine will have his pictures developed in two days... He didn't manage to finish the whole spool and his mum would be mad if he wasted the last ones, so... I just asked him if we could use them."

Arthur eyed him seriously. "Did you give him money?" He inquired.

"What? No! No, no, I didn't!" Alfred was quick to move his hands in front of his chest and give excuses. Too quick.

"You're lying, aren't you?" Arthur then asked, sighing annoyed.

Alfred stopped and watched carefully, ready to run at every false movement. "...Maybe?" He replied in a rather unsure tone.

Arthur looked at the camera in his hands pensively. _There is no other way, _he thought. "How much?" He asked eventually.

"Well, five pounds. More or less." Alfred replied with the same quivering voice.

_Five pounds for a couple of pictures? _Arthur turned the black plastic object into his hands, then he reached for his wallet in his trousers and took the money out before handing it to the little blonde. "I guess there's no other solution."

Alfred smiled softly and took the camera in his hands along with the money, but as soon as he held it in front of his eye, a slight complain came. "I won't take a picture of you dressed like that!"

The English boy looked at himself in the reflection of the window. He was right. He didn't care if his yellowish shirt and his blue trousers weren't too fashionable, but the idea of giving a picture of him so cheap-looking bothered him. Of course, maybe he couldn't be as elegant and dreamy as his French friend, but at least he could try to be nicely simple and, well, clean.

"Go to the bathroom!" Alfred ordered like a true general. Arthur fast obeyed, as the voice coming from the shower cube sang the first lines of "Live Forever" by Oasis. With a few small steps, Alfred reached the envelope and read the letter. Without success. French was still a foreign language to him, even though he had spent every summer with the golden-haired boy's family, which had made him somewhat able to speak it, but reading it... Gosh, what were all those strange words? Yet, the picture behind to the side caught his attention.

His eyes sucked in every detail, even if an odd inner feeling crept into his body as well. It was a sort of violent admiration and light jealousy, but his mind couldn't decode it. I that was the guy who made his big brother happy, he needed to know nothing more. Yet, a strange bitterness invaded his mouth, as soon as he remembered the times Arthur had left him to go and write a new letter. He just swallowed and put the photo down.

"Alfred..." Arthur started timidly, as he reappeared from the bathroom.

"He's... nice." Alfred replied casually, before turning with a fake brilliant smile on his face. "I'll get you some clothes!" And dashed to the wardrobe.

Arthur followed him with his gaze on walking towards his bed. "Yeah...Nice." Was his soft murmur on giving the picture a second look. He was a lot calmer now, yet the weird sensation wouldn't leave him. And it didn't. Francis sent him other pictures, understanding Arthur's impossibility to gift him with the same kindness once he had found the humility to explain his poor condition to the other. _Ne te préoccupe pas, Arthur. Au moins, j'ai toutes les autres accrochées sur le mur de ma chambre! Je les regarde chaque soir avant de me coucher..._He had replied sweetly. _I look at them every night before sleeping... _Did he really do? Arthur couldn't say. Yet, the pictures he had been given were well-hidden under his mattress and kept like precious treasures.

That weird sensation of butterflies flying in his stomach never left, it just slowly turned into annoyance and bother every time Francis would write something about his love affairs. He couldn't understand why he suddenly felt the need to read those pink lines that made him sick, when he perfectly knew he could just skip them. An insane curiosity that craved to know more about the far-away boy's life munched his insides. It wasn't jealousy of him, just... he didn't like the idea of sharing Francis with someone other. He was somewhat afraid that if he had found his Special Someone, then he would have turned his back to him, leaving him behind in the dark dust of his non-existent life. After reading those letters, he often found himself in the bathroom, staring at the giant oval mirror, asking his own reflection angry questions. _Why ain't I like him?_ His messy hair, his bushy eyebrows, his white scrawny body. He hated everything about it and about himself, but, above all, he hated that feeling of impotence on hearing the other's perfect life.

He didn't hide it. His sarcastic remarks and subtle replies described pretty well his offended feelings. Yet, Francis didn't care. Actually, he cared, but Arthur's possessiveness amused him. He found that he strangely enjoyed teasing him, adding more details than necessary to their conversations. It was true that he flirted with lots of girls, but it did so only for the sake of Romanticism. He would never date them for more than a month, as he felt there was something missing in all of them, something essential, something he strangely found only in that weird English boy. It was true that he used to have his pictures hanging on the walls and that he stared at them every evening, sometimes even pretending to be talking to the real Arthur, imagining him by his side. Having him there always calmed him when he felt troubled and filled him up with glee when he woke up tired. He never told him he had to take them off. He was just honouring a friend, he repeated his parents, but the way they whispered worriedly to each other, looking at him with disapproving eyes made him decide otherwise. Their opinion, their suspects and the sense of mistrust towards him forced him to hang his pictures on the inside of his wardrobe's door, so he could say hello to Arthur first in the morning. This cherished him to no end and filled him with joy, almost as much as he could feel in his heart when he received another envelope.

Their strange correspondence kept on for years, even after Alfred's departure, till Francis announced his wedding. Arthur was the first to know and the first to cry. That small French girl he had found wasn't too bad. A neat blonde with big blue eyes and a warrior attitude. Strong-willed, single-minded, a perfect housewife. Arthur couldn't bring himself to like her. Or to like the idea Francis would belong forever to another one, either. But he had to pretend he was, faking a smile anytime he was invied to their house, as she made Francis happy. Yes, _she_ made him happy.

* * *

"Of course I am French! Why do you zink I have zis OUTRAGEOUS accent?" Francis snarled after reading the print on his tee-shirt. "_Caisse-toi,_ Arthur." He said rather offended, turning again to the window. "At any rate, yours isn't better." He replied after a few seconds. The offended tone in his voice had turned to a much more amused one and also his expression was now calmer and more childish.

"Drink Tea – Be Splendid." Arthur responded without even glancing at it. "I will surely follow the advice once at home!" He added with a challenging smirk.

Francis' small smile reappeared. No matter what, he always knew how to make him fell better. "Music?" He asked, already moving to turn on the radio.

"Let the anvils ring!" Arthur replied, not stopping the other. The voice of the DJ soon entered the car, announcing the next hit. "... And now, for the pleasure of your ears, The Killers!"

"Oh! Don't change, don't change! This song is amazing!" The Englishman said expectantly, not noticing the wider smile on the other's face. The guitar had already started playing, when Francis rethorically asked "And who's going to change?" His singing voice invited Arthur to join the choir. "I'm coming out of my cage~"

"And I've been doing JUST FINE~" Arthur answered melodiously, adding a certain strength to the last two words, as to emphasize them. "Gotta gotta be down, because I want it all!" They both sang along perfectly.

"It started out with a kiss~" Francis continued with glee, the bright smile now not leaving his face.

"How did it end up like this?" Arthur kept on never losing the thread, his pads tapping the steering weel like an added instrument, now that the atmosphere had turned cosier and warmer. Whispering, they both softly intoned.

"It was only a kiss... It was only a kiss."

* * *

End Ch.9

Thank you for wishing ^^. Your desires will be granted as soon as possible. Now, this chapter needed revising, as it used to suck hard. It still does, but less. The next wishes will be available once Life stops being a sly bitch.

Some people asked for explications. If you're interested, keep on reading.

So, how old are they? Well, let's put it this way. 1) They've been knowing for 20 years, more or less. Then, they must be older than 20. 2)They met before seriously studying French and English and, since I'm 18, my personal experience says once you started learning foreign languages at 8/9 (21 years ago, you would start learning one of them at 14, if you were lucky.) That means that when they met, they were more or less 8/9. That means that at the time of the story, they are 28/29. 3) They finished University, then they are older than 25; Francis is older, but he finished the same year. Either he failed a year, had a gap year or He-knows-what. You'll know. Maybe. 4)They got married, widowed and divorced. So, they probably married once school was over (or in the meanwhile, during Summer. Love is blind and doesn't care about calendars and school.). Engagement: 5 years? Marriage: 2-3 years. Divorce: Consensual: more or less 2-3 years separation then divorce. Depression: Being still recovering, she died more or less 3-4 years before. 29-3= 26. 26-2= 24. 24-5= 19. He met her when he was 18, got engaged when he was 19, married her when he was 24, lost her when he was 26. Arthur's life is still to discover, yet I imagine him 1 year younger, while Alfred is 3 years younger than Arthur anf 4 years younger than Francis. That means that at the time they met he was more or less 6.

That means the characters are currently: Francis: 29 y.o. ; Arthur: 28 y.o. ; Alfred (not appearing, but still): 25 y.o.

Time setting: Guys, I got my first PC when I was 10 and till 13 Internet was an unknown place for me. Do you really think they wrote e-mails when they were young? I prefer thinking they did like children (like this old one) once did to keep in touch with their far-way friends: they wrote each other letters.

I do hope this satisfied your curiosity. ^^


	10. My Cold Warmth

NEW CHAPTER! Ain't you excited?

Chinese: (I prefer using some Chinese words instead of adding -aru at the end of sentences)

早安, 爸爸 : Zao an, ba ba - Good morning

爸爸 : (ba ba) - Dad

你 好 吗 : (ni hao ma) - How are you?

我知道了 : wǒ zhīdào le - I see... (I know now; I understand)

Français:

_Serait-il plus heureux avec moi?" : Would he be happier with me?_

* * *

****

**_My Cold Warmth_**

Arthur snorted. The police. A young officer stopped their car and walked to the left side to meet the driver.

"Sorry, Sir. The road is closed." He militarily stated once the windowsill was lowered.

"Thank you very much for the news, but we have already noticed. As my house is precisely over there, would you please show us another way?" Arthur replied with false courtesy.

Hearing the mocking tone in the civilian's voice, the officer stiffened nervously, but didn't give sign of his slight anger to the man in the car. Pointing to the end of the street, he remarked. "If you go straight on along the way and then turn right, you might have some chances to get closer to your house."

"What does it mean 'get closer to my house'? That I can see it from the distance, but not get inside because of the annoying Yorkshire in my neighbours's garden? Sorry, chap, but I'd rather spend my afternoon here in this place than hear a noisy ball of fur barking all along without being able to kill it with my own bare hands."

Francis chuckled, much to the contestants annoyance. It was a serious competition going on between the two and snickering before the challenge had finished would surely bring misfortune to the three of them. Or, at least, ruin the atmosphere.

Noticing the glance Arthur had sent him, Francis stopped immediately, but even if he was now staring outside the window, hearing the two bickering made him smile for some unknown reason.

"Sir, all I can suggest is that you keep on driving and see yourself if the access to your house is closed even on the other side of this road." Said the policeman eventually.

"Fine, then. Thank you and good-bye." Arthur answered quickly and followed the street till the asphalt was connected again with another black river. Once he turned right, his once stern face turned into a much more amused one.

Francis elbowed him. Teasing policemen, or "Bobbies" as Arthur called them, was one of their favourite past-times. Being a rebel as a teen, Arthur had always kept a sort of hatred against those self-proclaimed defenders of Justice. Defenders of the Economical Interests of the Upper classes, he used to say. And Francis... Francis just followed him. Arthur would rant about Anarchy while getting ready for a manifestation on gulping liters of Guinness, while Francis' mind just tried to grasp those complicated yet fascinating concepts his mate was absorbed into. He always managed to find some time for Arthur. It didn't matter if it was just a couple of hours, but he felt the need to be near the other every once in a while. He supposed it was all because Arthur was the only one showing him real care and affection. Of course, the Brit tried to hide his delicate feelings of friendship by being always somewhat rude or violent, but he also never missed an occasion to meet up with him or give a good advice or reply to a letter or... Or. Arthur had always been there, without asking for anything in return.

Francis' gaze lowered, while his lips returned to a fine straight line. He didn't deserve such a good friend by his side and yet, there he was. Arthur, always next to him, both when the sun shined and the rain fell. And him? He had never done anything right in his life. Always following his parents' orders, never standing up for himself, never trying to revolt, never reaching for the phone when he knew Arthur was feeling ill just on the other side of the Channel. What kind of a friend was he?

A touch on his shoulder and he turned bewildered to look into the other's worried eyes.

"Are you okay?" Arthur asked rather concerned. He didn't like when Francis started day-dreaming. It was never a dream passing through his mind.

Francis' eyes shifted to the side and closed a little. Returning to a proper position, he stated on grabbing the collar of his T-shirt. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine, thank you."

Arthur straightened, too, glancing both to the wet street and to the frail frame next to him. He sighed. _He might have a better-built body, but he still seem so weak_...

Another policeman stretched out his arm to stop their vehicle, but this time Arthur didn't dare challenging him. Instead, he smiled at him friendly and asked . "Working even on Sunday, eh, Vash?"

The blond officer replied bitterly. "Shut up, Arthur. I've got a gun and I'm not afraid of using it!"

Arthur smirked. The Swiss really needed a nice cup of tea. Or a psychiatrist. But then, who would take care of his young sister? "How's Lily?" He replied calmly.

Vash' eyes widened in rage. "Stop messing around my sister, you sicko! She's too young and innocent for a bastard like you!" He roared nervously, already pointing to Arthur's house. "Leave your car nearby and walk to your house before I kick you in, got it?" He added with a much more furious tone.

"Got it. See ye, Vash." Arthur remarked rather sarcastically, pressed the pedal on changing gear and parked right in front of the Chinese man's house.

Once he was sure he couldn't listen to them, Francis humorlessly whispered. "So, THAT is Vash."

"Nice guy, isn't he?" Arthur replied smiling brightly.

"He's a neurotic!" Francis exclaimed still whispering.

"Exactly. Nice guy, isn't he?" Arthur's sing-song voice repeated on exiting the car. Once they were both on the pavement, he added. "Give an alcoholic parent to a 12-year old boy and make him watch his beloved daddy beat his poor mommy to death and here you have a young officer over-obsessed with his little sister. Nice story, huh?"

Francis stared in horror. "You're lying, aren't you?" A small glimpse of lost hope had already formed in the angle of his eyes.

"No." Arthur replied not even glancing at him. "I'm sorry for them, but shit happens." He then sighed and pulled Francis closer to make him stop in front of the Chinese man's door and rang the doorbell twice. As Francis chewed on his lip on looking back at the blond Swiss guy, Arthur added calmly. "Don't feel guilty, it's not your fault."

"I know, but..." Francis started to reply.

"But, what?" Arthur's green eyes peeked at him. "Don't think you're the culprit for everyone's unhappiness, stupid megalomaniac. Who do you think you are? God?"

"No, but..." Francis was now seriously looking at him.

"Everyone's got problems." Arthur started firmly. Francis couldn't but keep silent. "Everyone's got his stinky pile of rubbish on his back . And everyone has to go around with this sickening burden, that can't but get heavier and heavier. Got my thread?" Arthur asked on glancing to the side. Suddenly, he felt like one of those depressed wise old man always feeding the ducks at Hide Park, giving out counsels for nothing.

"I think I do..." Francis stated back. He wanted to say something, when the door suddenly opened.

"早安, 爸爸 , Mr. Kirkland and Mr. ..." A young boy with almond-shaped eyes said on opening the door.

"Hello..." Arthur stared at the young boy leading them into the house.

"爸爸's waiting for you in the kitchen. You know the way." He simply stated before running up the stairs to disappear in his room.

"Arthur! Francis!" A loud voice called made them turn their eyes, still following the figure that had disappeared on the first floor. "你 好 吗? I tried calling a couple of times, weren't you at home?" He added, noticing the poor clothes the others were wearing.

"Uh? No... Actually, Francis and I spent the night out..." Arthur replied with a kind smile dancing on his face.

"我知道了 ... You should get home, then, to check if everything's alright!" The Chinese man added slightly concerned.

"We just preferred visiting you first in case you needed some help, Yao. Is there something we can do for you?" Arthur remarked with great care. Yao was a friend, after all, and it wasn't gentlemanly to leave a friend alone in times of disgrace.

Yao took his time to think over it and then ran to the kitchen to get his wallet. "Would you please buy me some water? Apparently, we'll be out of it for a while. Electricity is gone, too, as well as any other service and asking my son to carry all those bottles all alone is somewhat cruel of me, don't you think?" He asked with a certain fake sadness on giving him the exact amount of money.

"So... That's your son. He seems a nice guy." Arthur commented. "Anything else?" He asked plainly after putting the money in the pocket.

"Not really. And you can bet he's a nice guy. One day, he'll be a great physician, you'll see!" Yao boasted on dashing past them to lead them to the door. Francis just had a look around the orange and red house. It smelled of incense and tea. Marvelous.

In no time, Yao had pushed them outside his shelter and, having exchanged small worried smiles with Arthur, he went back inside his house.

"He hasn't changed a bit." Francis said plainly, on walking by Arthur's side. _He still looks at me like a madman..._

"You're wrong."

Francis gazed to his mate, almost not understanding the answer.

"He's got older, but not weaker. He's wiser, but not less practical. He's a much better man and a far eviler one." Arthur stated calmly. He always had a gift for understanding people's inner world.

Francis laughed humorless. "You're a cynical bastard."

Arthur scoffed. "I am, you spoiled crybaby. And have I told you you stink yet?" He rummaged in his pockets for the keys and once he had got them, he opened the door. "Go and get a shower, or your smell will impregnate the walls, you rat."

Francis smiled gingerly. "I bet you'd love my smell never to leave you." He whispered on dshing upstairs. He needed a hot shower, more for his nerves than for his scent of skunk.

Once he got to the bathroom door and tried to open it, much to his surprise, he found it locked. Slapping his forehead as soon as the memory of the evening before hit his brain, he jumped to the side and strolled to Arthur's room serenely, listening to the suffocated huffs coming from the kitchen, where his host was boringly washing the dishes. He couldn't contain a small chuckle escaping his lips at the thought of Arthur in a frilly apron. A frilly PINK apron. With a big heart-shaped pocket right in front of his chest saying "Don't kiss the cook. He tastes horrible."

When he walked past the living room, remembering the fun they had the night before, the image of the soft pillow, companion of every adventure, suddenly smashed into his mind. The pillow. _Merde_. He insulted under his breathe, giving his head small knocks as to punish his brain for forgetting about the loyal friend. Promising himself to remind Arthur about it, he headed towards the bedroom. His hand hadn't reached the handle, that a knot had already formed in his throat. The room at the end of the corridor.

Francis had never had the chance to get into that room. It was Alfred's. And no-one could enter it. It didn't matter how much he pleaded, whined or cried, that room was off-limit. He had even stated once, that he would manage to step into those four walls, just to make Arthur angry. But he had never had the courage.

When Alfred was still around, Arthur used to make promises like "We'll let you in only when Alfie's fine with it." But Alfred was never fine with it. Alfred... It wasn't like they couldn't stand each other, on the contrary, there was a sort of mutual respect between the two. But that room was only for Arthur and him. And Francis couldn't bear being excluded.

Peeking behind himself and listening more carefully to Arthur's now singing voice, he made sure he had enough time to have a quick look inside. Tip-toeing to the white wooden door, his gaze rested a bit on the light traces of humidity to its sides, where the dye had already started to come off. Why wouldn't Arthur keep it nice and clean like every other place around his house, he wondered and yet, reached for the brass handle. His hand took his time before pushing the door open, may it be because of the slightly creepy crimson-red sign stating ALFRED, which strangely seemed more threatening than ever. Had the hue always been so blood-like? And was that stinky mould?

As the old gray caged shadows started being illuminated by the fair new light, a lightly frightened Francis tilted his head to catch a glimpse of whatever there was inside of the forbidden room. He wasn't so sure he really wanted to know what he had been denied for so long, and yet he was too curious to let the chance slip away. His hand travelled along the wall tentatively in seach for a switch, when eventually a clicking sound made the old dusty lamp light up.

Francis blinked.

It was an empty room. A gray, dusty, dirty, empty room. It crept him out immensely.

He switched the light off, loudly shut the door, quickly dashed into Arthur's room, occasionally glancing behind to see if something would come after him. He couldn't explain the sudden feeling of anxiety that had gotten inside of him. The dark room he had always wished to enter was just a dull, boring chamber, whose cracked walls were stained with spots of humidity and... hand marks? Were those gray traces of hands on the walls? And what about the dark brushes on the corner walls? All in the same area. All at at the same height. All in the same dark, crusty, deadly colour. They looked like... He shook his head. It couldn't be possible.

Arthur used to cut. He knew that. He knew perfectly. That was why he soon started to invite him to the mountains in summer, so he would always have an excuse for covering his arms. And not be all by himself, of course. Yet, he promised to stop after the.. accident. He promised that if Francis got over the thing, if he started to eat, drink, move, work, live again, he would try to quit it. Sure, the Frenchman couldn't really say he had started to live again. Day after day, the unbearable routine brought him nothing more that absolute boredom. And he didn't feel alive. Absolutely. Inside, he had the feeling somewhat was missing. A feeling, he didn't experience when Arthur was around, tough.

Francis stared at himself. His hand was clenching his tee-shirt right in front of his heart and his back was leaning on the cold bedroom wall to support his suddenly weaker figure. He coughed, stood up, peeked behind, entered the passage and reappeared behind the mirror. All without thoughts.

Once he was in the bathroom, sighing, he walked to the chair, disentangled it and set it aside. Then, it was the closet's turn to be put back in place. He was sure that after a nice shower, he wouldn't have the same will to do such hard work. Plus, he somewhat needed to create another escape door from that room. No-one ever knows. Once the closet covered the same dust as the night before, he put all the towels, shampoo bottles and sponges back where they belonged, until there was nothing else left on the floor. He did everything mechanically, wishing no other thoughts entered his mind.

Smiling slightly, he looked at his satisfied expression in the mirror. Not losing confidence, he took off his tee-shirt, admiring his own trim body, his strong arms, his hairy chest, his muscular abdomen. He liked himself, he adored himself. His body was simply perfect. Mainly and perfect. Sometimes, he had wondered if it was too narcissistic of him to fall in love with his own self after spending hours caressing his well-built figure, his golden hair, his sculpted muscles. His smile just grew wider. What did Arthur think of him? Suddenly, he wanted to know.

Actually, he had always wanted to know. But it had never been the 'right moment', as the Brit would say. When was the right moment? Francis couldn't tell. He just kept on watching his body change in front of the mirror day after day, month after month, year after year, wondering what would creep into the Englishman's mind if he only paid him a little more attention. Would he like him as much as he liked himself or would he laugh at him for being so selfish? What if he liked him? Right... what if he liked him?

Frowning, Francis let his hand travel down to take off his left garments. He didn't even notice the dirt around the hem of his jeans, as the thought started carving his way into his brain. He had never considered the idea of being in love with a man. It wasn't like he considered it against nature or anything. He perfectly accepted the idea that Nature had its way and in his mind, this kind of prejudices were all because of a retarded cultural background. All knew sexual equality was a success only rich developed countries could manage to obtain. And it wasn't even sure all those so-called devoloped countries would accept a relationship different from a male-female one. As if nowadays people had sex only to have children. What were women, then? Sperm containers? And men? Just a bunch of rapists over-obsessed with the idea of a male heir?

Francis felt dirty. He needed water to wash away the feeling of guilt which had started to coil in his lower abdomen. In his mind, having sex frigidly just to make babies was like committing a crime. Even animals feel something when they're with their partner! Life would be a lot sadder, if humans weren't granted the possibility to pleasure themselves by loving each other.

Love... it wasn't only about sweet nonsense, tight hugs, passionate kisses, hot sex. It was something greater. It was the need to have someone by your side, to share your own self with this same one, to belong to him entirely. Him... Arthur.

Why was Arthur so present in his thoughts, lately? Of course, they had a nice friendship and all, but it was nothing more than that. No physical attraction, no desperate need for contact, no crave for ardent kisses. He just needed to hear from him from time to time, to know he felt right, to know he was still around with his load of problems and worry well-placed on his back. He felt the need to make him happy.

Happy... "_Serait-il plus heureux avec moi?" _The thought stroke Francis like a loud thunder. His whole body tensed, his eyes widened, his breathe stopped. Only his heart kept on skipping faster and faster under the warm water.

* * *

End Ch. 10

Not so long as I expected, but if I had to add all rest, this chapter would never end.

Your satisfaction and reviews are both well accepted, especially if you have something to say about Francis' thoughts on homosexuality or your general opinion on this little piece of cr- erm. Call it the way you prefer.

I guess a Frenchman would think of it in a rather modern way. (Referring to the general opinion about it and the laws concerning the matter in France, they are waaaaay more evolved than here in my poor country.). Still, it's not so common or natural, anyway. Actually, for some guys and girls it is still a "problem" to be a homo in these countries, but in my mind, our Frenchie grew up to be a rational, clever man, able to discuss anything without giving a damn about the speaker's sexuality. Of course, until he himself started batting for the other team...


	11. In and Out

Deutsch – English:

_Werden sie stolz auf mich? : will they be proud of me?_

Vater: Father

"Hast du ihn gesehen? Oh, Gott! Oh, Gott! Was sollen die Nachbarn sagen?" : did you see him? Oh, God. What will the neighbours say?"

"... und wie er wieder aussieht! Löcher in der Hose und ständig dieser Lärm!": and what he looks like! with holes in his pants and listening to this noise!

"..Und dann noch seine Haare! Da fehlen mir die Worte... Musste er die denn färben?": and his hair, too! I have no words... Did he really have to dye it?

"Nie kommt er nach Hause! Ich weiB nicht mehr weiter..." : And he never comes back home! I really don't know what more...

Mutter: Mother

Wo ist dein Bruder?: Where's your brother?

mach auf: open the door!

Ich muss zum Bruder: I have to go to my Brother.

Nein, jetzt kommst du bei mir, dann rufe ich den Arzt an und wenn du untersucht wirst, komm' ich zuruck fur deinen Bruder: no, now you come by me, I'll call a doctor and while he's working, I'll come back or your brother.

Ich hab' kein Geld: I have no money

Schwester: sister

Danke: Thank you!

**

* * *

**

In and Out

Francis shook his head violently. What a stupid thought. Of course he couldn't make Arthur happy! He needed a calm, sensitive, literate woman and he was nothing but a messy, showy, cunning piece of man. He needed a serene and equilibrated spouse, not a psycho addicted to painkillers. Killed they the pain, at least, he would have some chance, but alas, it wasn't so. They just increased the vibrant rhythm his bleeding wounds would often send to his brain and turned its pleasant repetitions into an obsessive drumming that drove him crazy. Stupid drugs. Stupid pain. Stupid Francis. Would Arthur ever love a messy mass of flesh and bones like him?

No. Of course he wouldn't.

Francis swallowed. He felt a sharp needle piercing through his left lung, deeper and deeper, stinging and cutting until it reached the heart and stopped it. He swallowed harder. He needed air. The heavy water was suddenly falling too fast on his back, a violent storm that brought his breathe away. He needed air, but he couldn't suck any. The muscles of his neck tensed to search for some oxygen, but the rain just kept falling ceaselessly. His legs suddenly got weaker and he fell backwards against the cold wall. He hissed. Air. Life. Cold.

His hands patted the wall behind him in a desperate attempt to lift him, but it was like moving an ancient Greek statue from his place. A white marble statue. The thought of his naked skin turning into a milkier colour, his muscles marvellously tensed into a never-ending quest for perfection, his mind finally free of every worry. What a pleasant prospect for his possible reincarnation. And maybe he would be exposed at the Louvre and every visitor would admire his golden smooth skin and his perfect wavy hair and... his frozen heart. Would he really want to live forever without being able to love? All those people, they would admire him, even compliment on him, but what would he be if nothing but a well-sculpted piece of marble if he couldn't love them back freely and sincerely?

And why, among those unknown blurry faces, could he see a young Arthur, already wearing his green-framed glasses, taking notes like a grown-up when he just appeared to be 14? Arthur... Did he still remember when they went to the Museé d'Orsay and Francis boasted all the time about the great revolutions his people started? Did he ever take their pictures out of the drawer, to see how many changes have taken place?

There's a hint of sadness on Francis' face and Arthur seldom smiles. There's a wicked wrinkle ready to appear in his early 30s, just next to his rose-red lips, and his eyes are getting bloodier and bloodier as the times goes by. And what about the colour of his teeth? The many teacups he keeps on chugging just make them turn always more yellowish. And his breath? A mixture of alcohol, tea and rotten eggs. But it's not too bad. At least, he tries to cover its smell by sucking an insane amount of mint candies. He'll get to the point he'll have toothpaste for dinner, Francis used to say. "At least, he'll have something edible!" He never failed to add. But what was different on his face?

He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bath-tube. The glimmering drops sparkled like grey pearls on his skin. A perfect lover. He sighed, tilting his head to catch as many details as possible, but he couldn't find any. A scratch under his chin, his stinging stub, his doused hair. Nothing new from his body. Maybe an accent of flab starting to cover his abs, but a couple of hours at the local gym and it would fade away like snow under the sun. If something had changed, maybe Arthur knew.

With a towel wrapped around his head, Francis walked outside the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the carpeted floor. His body froze when he heard the Brit's voice answering the phone.

"Ludwig? Arthur's speaking. Yeah, that one. Listen, I won't be there on time, today. Yeah, yesterday's storm did- No! Absolutely not! Don't worry, nothing bad happened! It's just- Well, I'll be there for, don't know, half past two? ... Oh, of course, but don't count too much on it, you know what London's streets are like at two in the afternoon! ...What? Oh, no, I couldn't be there at 10.30 even if my life depended on it! ... Well, d'you remember Francis? Tall, blonde... French? Exactly, the one that called your people a bunch of Potato-eating Krautz before offering you a vanilla cigarette. ... Oh, c'me on, it wasn't intentional! Really! ... Nah, he's a good guy. Kinda weird, but who isn't? ... Perfect. Of course, I'll work a couple of hours more, don't worry. ... No, sure I get you don't do this intentionally. ... Ludwig, it's really fine to me to work a couple of extra-hours! Why, do you think I have something exciting to do this evening? ... Bastard. ... What would you do if I accepted the offer? ... Fine, if I manage to finish working before 5 o'clock you'll own me a beer. But if I don't, you'll stay there until the end and let me treat you, got that? ... Yeah. Sure. Fine. See ye, German hell-hound. Bye."

A huff. A smile. Ludwig was really a great boss. Stern, square face. Fussy, military attitude. Warm, caring heart. Being an officer, he couldn't let his guard down, never. This caused him to appear like an old bastard colonel, even if he was just a young cop. Too young, to lead a bunch of disorganised bastards like them. Arthur was nothing more than an archivist, there at Scotland Yard. His body was too frail and his mind too unstable to let him become part of any team. Criminal psychology? 9 years of hard work on insane books for what? For chatting with mad psychopaths, if you ever got the chance to work? And who would pay for his studies? No, if he wanted to be useful to those bobbies, he needed to do something nice, something simple. He organised the archives. Cataloguing clues, looking for documents, organising the drawers and, only sometimes, hiding some paper... Well, that was a work he could do. Nice, clean, simple. From 9 to 5, paid by the State. Oh, yeah.

He sucked a fresh breath of air through his nostrils. What a hellish day. He turned on his heels and went back into the kitchen to dry the dishes. Ludwig was still in his mind. He couldn't believe he had such a kind boss.

He started working at the police station only 2 years ago, but he couldn't step in, that his fame had already created a monster. A Nazi bastard, they used to say. Of course, he hates Jews, he wants us all to die, he's certainly had some relations with the Gestapo, his mother betrayed the family for a KGB spy, his father used to go around murdering innocents like any good Hitler's boot-licking servant and his brother hasn't been around for ages... Surely a dick-head chased by the Interpol. Rumours, rumours, rumours. Arthur didn't believe them. He used to make fun of the whispering voices circulating from office to office with Francis, obtaining sometimes his weak smile in return.

He didn't know what Francis thought of Ludwig. Sure was, that they both respected each other a lot. Yet, he wasn't sure about how much they liked each other's presence... That was why he preferred not having them meet. They would bring up politics and he loved politics just as much as a hammer smashing his toe.

And even though now Ludwig was the greatest boss they had ever had, the prejudices from before never left him. Not only was he "The Nazi", but he was the only one Vash would listen to. Arthur had once managed to overhear a conversation between the two and, surprisingly, they were talking like two good friends. Now, Ludwig could pretend to be the big guy and get everyone's affection, but Vash... Vash was a protective psychotic. This particular behaviour made Arthur so curious, to the point that he expressed his doubts to the Swiss' little sister.

And Lily answered.

When they were left alone, since Vash wasn't of age and had no work, they couldn't buy themselves a house and, of course, the social assistants' proposals implying their separation weren't even taken into consideration. They couldn't be divided. They just couldn't. And so they fled from Switzerland to a better place in the North, where no one knew them and where they would probably find a job.

And here comes Ludwig, a young blond sky-eyed boy, returning home from the Military Academy. A dumb smile on the face and thousands of expectations in his heart. _Werden sie stolz auf mich? _Was the only question in his mind. He jumped off the train, waving good-bye to his companions, and started walking home under the rain. His Vater couldn't come to the station, but "he is a man, he can walk under those stupid raindrops, can't he?" Was the only question he asked before cutting the line. He didn't sound too happy, Ludwig noticed, but he didn't worry. His Vater surely had something more interesting to do instead of listening to his complains. Keep silent and march on, hadn't he learned his lesson? And imagining the warm fireplace, the luminous living room, the bright faces of his parents and relatives, he headed on towards home, until he ran into a young blonde. Without arguing, he lifted her from the pavement with his strong arms, excused himself raising his wet cap and walked past her quickly, not hearing the weak voice calling behind him.

The tower sang his gloomy song. He was late, incredibly late. His quick steps turned into a frenetic dance, heading on and on against every difficulty. Home. In his mouth, this word tasted like black bread and butter and honey and warm coffee. Home. Family. Vater. His Vater would be proud of him. Of course he would, he was the best at the Academy and he had that letter in his pocket. A degree. A smile plastered on his face. Victory. Nothing had a better flavour.

A luminous light was waiting for him outside the window, ready to welcome him in its splendour once he had found the courage to ring the bell and step inside, there, among his parents and relatives and... brother.

"Bruder..." He managed to say, when a smaller figure crept by his side, dashing outside the house and disappearing in the alley next to the building. Screams. Insults. Mutter.

"Hast du ihn gesehen? Oh, Gott! Oh, Gott! Was sollen die Nachbarn sagen?"

Mutter...

"... und wie er wieder aussieht! Löcher in der Hose und ständig dieser Lärm!"

A crash. Bruder's CDs.

"..Und dann noch seine Haare! Da fehlen mir die Worte... Musste er die denn färben?"

Mutter, don't cry...

"Nie kommt er nach Hause! Ich weiB nicht mehr weiter..."

"Mutter..."

Everybody turned. Ludwig.

Vater stood up, sternly and strongly. His serious expression would never betray his thoughts. "Ludwig. Wo ist dein Bruder?"

_'Bruder? I don't know, Vater. He ran away, he escaped again, you know he's not ready to live. Vater, don't look at me with those eyes, I really don't know. Vater, don't scream, Mutti is already chocking on her tears. Let me comfort her, let me go near her. Where is my brother? Where is he? I want him next to me, Vater. But you can only look at me with those stern, strict look and scold me once again. I'm sorry, Vater. Neither this time, I could make you proud of me.'_

Vater was still screaming at him for being an insensible brother, not even stopping his own blood from running away, not even caring for his heart-broken mother and standing still in the hallway without moving a muscle nor reacting, when the bell rang.

"MACH AUF!" Vater ordered with a military gesture, sending Ludwig to the door.

The bell rang again. Vater growled. Ludwig opened the door.

"Guten Abend..." Said the timid trembling voice of a pretty girl. Ludwig's eyes recognized the frail frame in front of him. The same girl from before. Why did she follow him?

"Guten Abend." He looked puzzled, as she offered him a small envelope, which revealed itself to be a small leather wallet. Without saying a word, Ludwig took it from her hands and explored every small detail of the black object like he had never seen it before. His wallet. Had he been so stupid to leave it behind? Suddenly, he remembered about the girl, but when his eyes managed to arise from the lucid leather in his hands, no-one was to be seen.

Vater screeched again, but Ludwig couldn't hear it, running down the streets as fast as he could in search of a pretty blonde. She had returned an empty wallet, the bastard.

The monotonous song of the rain falling, the creepy blowing of the wind through the branches, his quick steps on the ground, a tingling noise. Ludwig turned suddenly, attracted by the noise like a wolf is attracted by fresh meat. A small shadow rushing to the end of a lane. Her steps fast and delicate like those of a ballerina. There she was. Running madly so as not to get caught, she ran, she ran, she ran, but Ludwig was a too well-trained soldier and surely he wouldn't let a young thief trick him so easily.

He dashed towards her like a predator and once she was close enough, his hands clenched around her wrists. As the pull was too sudden and strong, the young girl lost balance and fell into his arms, not able to free herself. Ludwig immediately tightened the grip around her weak body, guessing that she would have escaped otherwise. But she did not.

She stayed there in his arms, calm and silent like a dead leaf. She quivered slightly, neither saying a word nor caring about her slow breath forming humid clouds in front of her nose. Chastely, she pressed herself against his chest, unconsciously looking for more warmth.

When Ludwig took her in his arms to carry her home with him, her only reaction was. "Ich muss zum Bruder." Still, looking at her pretty face under the light of the lamppost, Ludwig noticed her violet lips, turning bluer thanks to the winter, and decided otherwise.

"Jetzt kommst du mit mir." He answered, shaking his head softly. But the girl stubbornly replied.

"Ich muss zum Bruder." Ludwig stared at the frail body in his arms. There was no life in her red-circled eyes, only an incredible sufferance. And tears. Tears forming, tears falling, cold, bitter tears. "Bitte. Ich muss zum Bruder geh-" She coughed. Harshly, violently, repeatedly. She coughed blood.

"Nein, jetzt kommst du bei mir, dann rufe ich den Arzt an und wenn du untersucht wirst, komm' ich zuruck fur deinen Bruder." Ludwig stated coldly, walking faster and faster towards his house, that had now appeared to the side of the street. She needed a doctor, not an irresponsible brother.

The girl's eyes quivered. "Ich hab' kein Geld..." Money. Why do they always care about money? He was helping her, he would surely pay for her, why was she so scared? Ludwig decided it was better off not to answer and stomped into the mansion. His parents were still discussing about his Bruder, therefore he soon made up his mind on what to do with the young child.

Stepping up the stairs, he carried her to his own bedroom, to his bed, moved the blankets and left her with the delicacy of an elephant on his bed, before dashing out of the room, locking her inside and reaching for the telephone to dial the doctor's number.

Their quick conversation was interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door, to which Ludwig's Vater answered with a well-said German insult. But the knocking didn't stop, it only became angrier.

Ludwig thanked the doctor and stepped downstairs to the front door. He calmed his Vater with a rigid order, stroke a military pose in front of the door and got ready for a fight, as his hand reached or the handle to reveal who was hiding behind it. He slowly opened it, when an officer stepped inside.

He didn't even say hello, that he threw in a smirking handcuffed albino. He kicked him in the stomach, insulted his well-known parents, glared at Ludwig's bewildered look and left, leaving a note behind.

"Hallo, Lud." The young man stated with a rash, ill voice. He smelled of smoke, weed, alcohol. His face had gotten more yellowish than the last time and his teeth had kept on rotting. Even the inside of his eyes wasn't pure and clean any more: there was some fog inside his red globes that prevented them from shining brightly.

"Gilbert..." Disgusted, Ludwig refused to offer him a hand and moved away, to let their Vater come closer and take him to another room. Gilbert stared as his Bruder climbed the stairs sternly without looking back. The sad look in his eyes betrayed his false strictness.

When he was eventually upstairs, Ludwig knocked at the white door, waiting for an answer before entering. A whisper helped him make up his mind and so he pushed the handle. Lily was still in the bed, her chest raising and falling at a slow pace. The soldier closed the door behind them, shutting the light out. Now, only the faint light of the city entered his window.

He tip-toed to his desk and took place on the chair, wondering whether he should wait for the doctor outside. The little girl kept breathing in front of him. He smiled. He felt kind of better now that he had helped such a pretty creature. The thought that he had never done a thing for all the suffering around him didn't hit him the slightest, as the mere idea of being a good citizen now made him feel extremely proud of himself. He tilted his head to the side, still lost in his thoughts, when a clacking sound caught his attention and a sharp cold blade pressed against his throat made him come back to reality.

He could do nothing against the shadow that was now whispering at him in a thick Swiss accent. What did he want? Why did he take her away? No. The shadow simply required: "Will you help me cure my Schwesterlein?"

As soon as Ludwig nodded, the blade was moved aside. When he turned, a dirty trembling boy was staring with the eyes full of desperation and sorrow. _Really? _He asked naively, receiving another nod in reply. He grimaced, before he cried out a "Danke!" on bursting into tears, letting his body fall on the floor. "Danke... Danke..." He kept on repeating, his voice cracking and trembling, while he tried to hide his for too-long hidden tears behind his crusty hands.

Ludwig stared at him without breathing, before kneeling in front of him and taking him in his arms. His sobbing was piercing through his flesh, cutting his insides and weakening his spirit. He was giving hope to a desperate boy, why did he feel so hopeless in return?

In the end, the doctor came. The visit startled Ludwig's mother, but he reassured her in time. Fortunately, the Swiss guy was skinny enough to fit in the closet and the doctor quick and efficient enough to make a diagnosis in no time. He gave Ludwig medicines, recipes, a correct diet for the girl and disappeared without asking who she was. Yet, now Ludwig cared.

After explaining his mother why there was an ill blonde in his bedroom, he returned to sit by the girl's side and let her brother out. Silently, they moved to the kitchen, where Ludwig offered the stranger a warm dish and a warm blanket. Taking a beer for himself, he sat in front of him and tried to start a conversation. Something not easy for the both of them. And yet, after asking for his name, age, origins, they both felt incredibly at ease.

They discussed sincerely all night long, until they decided it was better to go to sleep. Vash could sleep on the sofa in Ludwig's room, whereas Ludwig would move to Gilbert's bed. He was sure he wouldn't come around until midday.

"What happened then?" Arthur asked, eager to know more.

"Well, since we needed money, Ludwig decided to enter the police and Vash made a try, too. He didn't have a degree, though, so he couldn't become more than a bobby. And, Ludwig was so nice that he let us stay with him and his family until I was finally able to breathe normally!" Lily explained with a voice full of gratitude.

"What a generous guy is our boss, isn't he?" Arthur remarked sarcastically.

"He is." Lily concluded. "He surely is. He gave us a home, food, a job! We were like brothers to him! We own him a lot, Arthur. So please, don't make stupid jokes any more. He is really the best." And with that, she turned and went back to her documents.

But Arthur had still a question or her. "What about his brother?"

Lily froze. With a cold, distant voice she replied. "What brother?"

Arthur frowned. Of course she knew who they were talking about! "Ludwig's! He had a brother, didn't he?" Lily cleared her throat, straightened her back, licked her lips. "Lily?" She sucked a good mouthful of fresh air and answered.

"When we came in, he disappeared."

* * *

End Ch. 11

**In and out**: for a thing you dedicate time to, there are others you're neglecting. That's why we grow differently: because we decide to devote time differently to different things.

And now, a special **THANK YOU** to you, readers. You're the reason why I'm keeping on writing this stuff and why it'll soon get more interesting. BUT I needed to introduce Gilbert. He'll become part of the story in the future and I needed a way to insert him in the story.

THANK YOU, because you keep on reading, faving, commenting. Thank you, because you support me even if this stuff is long, boring and gets updated once in a blue moon. Thank you, because every word you leave behind make me somewhat happier. I'll answer all the messages, I just wanted to finish this thing first. Really, THANK YOU.


	12. Brothers

**Brothers**

Francis had silently climbed up the stairs and stolen some of Arthur's clothes by the time he finished washing the dishes. A quick glance at his now dressed frame in the mirror and he felt himself ready to hit the streets again. He had chosen a shirt almost mechanically, his mind occupied by thoughts of Ludwig.

The big German guy wasn't exactly someone he wished Arthur to befriend, no wonder he used to call him "Lieutenant Schulz". Visiting Arthur every so often, knowing where he lived, going to the pub together... Sometimes Francis wondered if buying a house in London would be a good idea. Arthur would pop in at the weirdest times to ask him out for a beer, to celebrate the next football cup or just to have dinner together. They had friends, of course, but they were more or less ghosts for them. They pretended to be jolly and nice when the sun shined, but vanished in the thin air when needed.

At any rate, he couldn't afford a house in the UK. Not now, not with such a past. Of his time spent at Arthur's, he distinctly remembered the scent of sweat that the well-built German guy wore as his personal cologne and the clear disgust showing on his face through the worst grimace, when he used to come in to re-assure Arthur and help him carry some of his paperwork to the kitchen table. Admirable bastard, making Arthur work even in his own household.

"The situation is as particular as controversial, but don't worry, I won't have you fired." He kept on saying with his low heavily-accented voice. In the end, Francis had started snorting at every footstep that was heavier than Arthur's. He had such feet like fairies, as he could dance on air making as little noise as possible. Of course, when not drunk.

Francis preferred to remove such memories from his mind. Memories of cries, sobs and sniffles. They made him feel guilty. Arthur had been drinking for a long time now and his liver was seriously damaged, but he just couldn't stop. There was no other way for him to escape from reality, no-one to support him, no family left behind. Knowing just how much Arthur mistrusted him made Francis feel even worse.

Mistrust. Francis sometimes wondered if it wasn't but an effort to keep him out of Arthur's problematic life. Still, as a friend, he also waited patiently for his moment to show his appreciation and love for the other by standing by him in hard times. Unfortunately, this occasion never came. Francis knew his proud, reserved friend and he could surely affirm he would rather break their relationship than open up his heart. He was scared, he needed time. Of course, but he had had plenty of time by now, Francis told himself. Maybe, it was time to help Arthur fix himself.

On entering his house the day before, he hadn't commented on his red eyes, but had preferred pointing to a random picture in order to make him feel better. On walking through the mirror, he hadn't said a thing about the bread crumples on the dirty floor, but had marched on to the bedroom. When they were at the hotel, he hadn't prevented Arthur from coming close to him like he used to, yet, he still couldn't find the courage to ask him whether he liked to sleep in the same bed when together. And on coming back home, of course he remembered Vash, Yao and everything he had told them about his bright son. Arthur helped him pay for the school fee, how could he forget? And of course, Alfred's room. Why was it so sadly empty? And those stains marking the wall... He didn't like them a single bit.

"You forgot to dry your hair." Arthur stated simply, amused by the jump the other made at the sound of his voice.

"You scared me!" Francis protested in covering his upper body with his arms, slowly observing Arthur coming closer with an hair-dryer in his hands.

Arthur merely smiled gently and walked to the plug serenely. "I'll give you a bag where you can put your stuff. You're going back by train, ain't you?" He asked simply as the hot air started fleeing out the hairdryer.

Blinking, Francis ran to his jacket, fishing his wallet out. Opening it, he took a glance of the return ticket and nodded. "That's right, here's my ticket!" He stated in showing a slightly wet piece of paper.

"Brilliant! Have you already checked what train you have to catch?" Arthur replied in walking to a black suitcase to the side of his bed, the hairdryer now turned off but still in is hand.

Francis thought for a moment, before pulling out a sorry expression. "Sorry, I forgot. May I-"

"Of course." Arthur remarked in taking his personal computer out of his suitcase and placing it on the soft cushion of the armchair. "Come here, I'll dry your hair in the meantime." He offered kindly. He perfectly knew Francis' hair was an utter mess to comb once it had dried its own way. It got all curly and crispy, like a ball of fur spat by a cat. It also got frailer unless treated instantaneously, but it would surely lose luminescence by the time it had gained its colour back.

He had learnt it by visiting Francis in summer. At first he saw this behavior excessively vain and completely useless, if not feminine, but his French friend proved him wrong by not drying his hair once a power cut had isolated them in a house without electricity. What a day had it been! Francis had gone completely berserk, refusing to speak to Arthur because he couldn't hold his laughter at his lion-like hair-cut. Arthur smiled. Time had really gone by fast.

His hand slowly caressed those thin golden strings he had always envied, while the other moved from side to side quickly so as not to burn his head to a crisp. His eyes glanced at his computer, opened on the EuroTransports page. He reminded himself he had to check his mailbox, but the idea of all that rubbish asking to be put in the bin and eliminated forever didn't enthusiasm him at all.

"I'll be leaving in the late afternoon. Or after dinner, if you prefer." Francis informed in tilting his head to the side slightly to get at least the shadow of Arthur's hand moving.

"What time will you be coming home?" He meant the second option, of course, but he wouldn't say it out loud. Francis' eyes traveled on the lit-up screen before he could form a reply.

"Well, count in the journey to the station, the metro to head back home and any possible delay, I guess I'll be home for midnight, maybe earlier." He then turned to face Arthur's thoughtful face. "What do you say?"

Arthur breathed in deeply, before leaving out a sigh. "You should take the one leaving sooner, then."

"I should stay here for another night, maybe." Francis remarked jokingly. Yet, somehow he felt he would like to stay some more with Arthur. Better him than Ludwig, anyway.

Arthur scoffed. "Why would you like to stay? Haven't you got someone waiting for you at home?" Arthur tried to mock him, but he regretted it as soon as he saw the hurt look on Francis' face. "Sorry..." He whispered, not noticing his hand had stopped moving. Francis shook his head lightly, before resting it against his slender fingers. He sighed.

"Home is where someone loves you." He murmured, before looking up at Arthur again. Home. "Tell me... Where's your home?" He didn't realize his inner question had escaped his lips so bluntly until Arthur's body stiffened, frozen in his place.

Arthur bit his lips breathing slowly, trying to regain his composure as soon as possible. Francis' eyes were sucking in every single piece of skin crippling under the oppressive tension, until Arthur's emerald globes arose to peek from behind his golden bangs.

"Where's yours?" He replied shortly, watching Francis attentively. He was smiling, as he took his colder hand in his own and moved it from his hair to his cheek. Arthur blinked and retreated his hand, on knitting his eyebrows together as he eyed Francis suspiciously.

Francis climbed up the back of the armchair to face Arthur. His smile did not fade, as he simply asked. "Where is Alfred?"

* * *

Arthur didn't like bringing up the subject. Family. He had never had much luck with it.

As a son of an unfaithful sailor, he had experienced the hardship of life since he was a child. He had been brought up in an orphanage, as his mother refused to take care of him, considering him a bastard son of a bastard that would end up being just as screwed up as his father. His brothers never really cared about him, no wonder he had never felt anything more than a distant disgust for all of them. And the assistants at the orphanage... A bunch of mind-fucked idiots never questioning the rules they had been taught to obey.

Arthur's childhood hadn't been this jolly, that's why he tried his best to pretend to be a good boy and find part-time jobs during summer, in order to escape from that prison at least for a couple of weeks every year. He was ready to do anything, from babysitting to digging graves, he only needed a sign on a God-forsaken paper stating "You are under Mr. Someone's care". Fortunately, an old lady from Brighton thought he kept good company and every once in a while, when her nurse was on holiday, she would require Arthur to stay with her and take care of her house.

She had first hired him only because of the money the government gave to encourage adoption, but as he was quite lovely and extremely clever, she kept on asking for him specifically, in order to offer him some freedom. She couldn't adopt, anyway. Not only was she too old, but lived alone since the dead of her second husband, which made her an unsuitable parent. "Two husbands, what a slut!" The nurses sometimes said. Arthur just tightened his fists and kept on searching for his freedom.

Yet, there was Alfred. He arrived one day, sleeping in a box, covered with an American flag, one of those sold at the local street-market. He carried nothing, but his own clothes. Arthur was the one naming him, as he saw him first. How couldn't he see him? He was already up that morning, brushing his teeth before someone could hide his toothbrush, when he heard the small creature crying.

A new brother. Someone younger than me! The thought filled him up with excitement. He ran down that stairs and smashed against the door, jumping a little to reach the door handle, where he saw him.

"Hello.." He said in offering him his hand to play, before the headmistress pushed him away from the toddler shouting something about bacteria and diseases, offering the baby to one of the nurses. As she asked for his name, Arthur promptly stated 'Alfred', not giving anyone an explanation for his choice as he immediately ran up the stairs to his bedroom. The toddler would be shown to everyone after a bath. Cold. The coldness of the water they had to bathe into was still in his mind. Even rain was warmer than that.

His temporary mother had no problem in accepting Alfred into the momentary family, as more kids meant more money. Besides, Alfred was quite an obedient child, if only Arthur didn't weep that much...

When Arthur was of legal age, he managed to find a work by some of his fake parents, who also offered him a place where to stay. Of course, he had to go to school, too, but this wasn't an excuse for not working double as much and being always ready also to clean their house and babysit their children, but he didn't care much. If he wanted to get Alfred out of that hell, he had to have a job and a home. And he was determined to make him escape before one of the other "brother's" made something to him.

He managed to save his little brother just in time. Inside the orphanage, a strange white substance was being given the children. Something to cure an Attention Deficiency or something, they used to say, not letting out that they were practically forced to give that drug to kids. He hadn't given much importance to the thing, until Alfred started acting weirdly. He was more impatient, more arrogant, fell asleep when stressed and couldn't concentrate well any more. Sometimes, he cried in his sleep. Arthur didn't know how to help him and hadn't enough money to have him seen by a doctor, plus, he trusted those kind of people very little. So he just kept on tolerating Alfred disturb, curing it by making him work as well.

He went around on a red bicycle, delivering newspapers to the whole citizenship. After a day of work he was always so tired, that he couldn't keep his eyes open. This was everything Arthur had managed to do for him. In the meantime, he succeeded in having him pass his exams, calculating exactly how many days he could go working instead of going to school. What a hellish life, Arthur sometimes said.

At the time, none of them drank nor smoked. They had no money to lose, not until also Alfred would be of legal age. With their savings, that had bought the house where Arthur still lived, working even on Christmas at the local department store and skipping meal after meal to save a pound everyday, too.

Arthur was happy, at the time. The only luxury he liked them both to have was spending a week with Francis. Francis described him the life he had never had, he made him dream of something marvelous, he made him imagine a true family, where people love you for real and not because someone pays them for it. When he felt depressed, he thought of Francis and counted the days that separated them from their next meeting. When he needed advice, he wrote to Francis. He always knew what to do and was always ready to give a hand, just like an elder brother. Arthur would not eat for a week, working even at night if that meant saving enough money for him to meet his best friend.

Francis had never felt superior. He knew everyone's life had the same dignity and he actually admired Arthur for being so determined. He also liked to be treated as a Big Brother, as he had only cousins to take care of. Of course, he was somewhat vain to the point of narcissism, but he couldn't change this side of his own self. And Arthur liked him the way he was. Or, at least, it seemed to him.

As his English friend and him were always around together, Alfred used to spend his week among Francis' relatives, who treated him like a doll, as he entertained their children in the most untypical ways, asking for nothing more than sweets and stories.

Life was hard, but they managed to be harder. At least, so it seemed. Arthur kept on crying every night, sitting by the washing machine so as not to be heard. He kept a small piece of glass under the closet, which he used to cut himself with. Small cuts, good for a few drops of blood, doors for his soul. Under the closet there were also simple notes, stating illegible words, disconnected the one to the other. Those were Alfred's.

As time went by, his disease seemed to worsen. He started speaking to himself, lulling onwards and backwards, staring at a blank spot in the middle of nowhere for hours, waking up in the middle of the night completely wet and running outside the window to look at the sky. Those notes were another symptom. Nonsensical words written on paper, on the wall, on the mirror. Arthur didn't know what to do.

Arthur tried to cover it all with silence, but one night a tough Swiss policeman kicked down his door. Without giving an explanation, he showed a paper saying they could do whatever they wanted while giving orders to every other bobby on the scene. They almost destroyed the house, without finding anything.

They were looking for Alfred, one of them informed, but he was nowhere to be found. He was a murderer, they said, he had set the whole orphanage on fire, they added. With empty hands, they turned on their heels and disappeared into the night, leaving Arthur alone.

"Alfred...?" He ran to Alfred's room, slammed the door open to see everything had been misplaced. He dashed out of the chamber to enter the other rooms, looking desperately for his brother all around the house. When he entered his bedroom, a hurt look mixed with agony, disbelief and blankness had taken place on his face.

This, until from behind the giant portray exited Alfred, a dumb smile dancing on his face. Arthur jumped back, staring in horror at the figure covered in ash and blood before him. Alfred opened his arms, keeping that sick smile right under his widened eyes.

"Arthur, I killed them all!" He stated proudly, before his smile fell a bit. With true innocence in his voice, he timidly added. "Will you stop crying, now?"

Arthur blinked. He had murdered all those people... for him? Guilt built up in his chest as the horrific image of sufferance and death hit the back of his head like a curse. "You didn't..." he whispered, starting to tremble for fear.

"I did! I did for real!" Alfred shouted utterly euphoric. His enthusiasm could be seen from the glimmering of his eyes. He was... happy?

"Alfred..." Arthur started to say, but the figure in front of him frightened him to the bones. A puppet, a diseases puppet. An ecstatic assassin. His little brother. He didn't know why, but he felt the sudden urge to embrace him and cry, cry out loud and let tears roll down his face.

"Arthur, you're crying..." Alfred stated, utterly surprised by his brother's reaction. He wanted Arthur to be happy, but now? Now he seemed even sadder, almost guilty. "Arthur, don't cry..." Alfred's voice trembled as he walked up to hug him. He felt sorry, but he really didn't know why.

"You have to leave." Arthur suddenly stated.

"What?" Alfred replied, as his brother moved aside and walked down the stairs. _Arthur, don't leave me..._

"You have to leave. Now." He repeated on taking his wallet, his keys, his jacket. "I don't want you to end up in prison."

"But... Arthur, aren't you happy?" Alfred asked unsurely, following his brother down the stairs. If Arthur wasn't happy, then he had done everything for nothing.

"Alfred, all my life, I've struggled all my life to give you a home, food, education, because I wanted you to be a man I could respect." He stated coldly on staring into his eyes. But then, his sight fell to the ground. "I failed."

Alfred looked at him hurt and bewildered. Was Arthur... rejecting him?

Arthur launched him his jacket, along with his wallet at the keys of his car. "Get away." He ordered before walking to the kitchen. Alfred was about to say something, when a siren started shouting his deadly song. Arthur was mad at him, but most of all, he was not happy. Clutching the keys in his hand, Alfred dashed into the starless night.

* * *

"Arthur?" Francis asked as Arthur had suddenly got quieter. The look on his face... he liked it not a bit.

"He's in America." Arthur said, choking back his tears. Alfred was really in America, but he couldn't say where. With another identity and still without a past, he had had to struggle to get a job. This was everything he knew from him. Life was hard, but he was trying to be harder. Of course, he signed everything 'F. Jones' and wrote with American slang in order not to be traced back and, to protect them both, he always gave a false address, sending mails every once in a while.

Francis sighed, before sitting back in place. His hair was dry now and, glancing at the alarm clock next to Arthur's bed, he could say it was almost time to go. He stood up, turned on his heels and hugged Arthur. He could see from the look on his face that he needed someone by his side and mentally blamed that train for leaving so early.

* * *

-End Ch. 12

Well, what did you expect? A fairytale?

To all of you, I wish you spent some amazing Christmas holidays. Now go back to your homework, you wankers!


	13. What if

Français: _On y va_ : Shall we go?

**Dishes:**

Greek. Ouzo. A liquor the author likes a whole lot.

Middle oriental: Kebab or Kebap. Meat, prickled vegetables, yoghurt sauce in a thin dough.

Falafed. Explained later.

Japanese: Sushi-sashimi. White rice with raw fish.

French: Crepes (or Crepes Suzettes with a circonflex accent on the first 'e'). God's food.

British: Fish&Chips. If you ask for an explanation, I'll feed you with it. It's just so GREASY.

Hope now you're curious to try some typical dishes! (Provençal, Midi-French and Hebrew cuisine are great, you should TOTALLY give them a try!)

**

* * *

**

What if...

As Francis had buckled his seat-belt and stuffed his lent bag on the back-seat, Arthur turned the key to set off to the station. Francis' train left later in the afternoon, but Arthur would never let him call a taxi to get there. He was a guest, dammit! His gentleman senses tickled at the mere opportunity of showing some hospitality. Moreover, the sun was blessing his motherland with his brightness once again and he was determined to seize the possibility of eating out, even if it meant a greasy Fish&Chips.

As Francis leaned on to turn on the radio, Arthur commented sarcastically. "You really enjoy chatting with me, do you?", which made him freeze on place. Turning his head to catch a sight of the driver to his right, Francis replied quietly.

"That's most certainly not it. What topic do you propose then, Sir?" He remarked in sitting back in place with one of his eyebrows slightly more curved than the other.

"What if I had a game to play, my kind Sir? Would this stimulate your curiosity?" He simply added smirking knowingly. If Francis had to vanish in a couple of hours, he wanted to spend as much time as possible conversing with him, rather than listening to commercial music. His accent wasn't exactly what he liked to hear, but his real voice, his expression changing, his whole body moving to add emphasis to his words, that was something he missed when talking on the phone. But now he was there, he was real. And knowing they had to part filled Arthur with an uncommon sadness, a sense of void that he experienced for no-one in the world.

It wasn't like with Alfred. He was his brother and he perfectly knew that they had to communicate very little. Not only were they forced to hear from each other not so often, but this would also ruin their relationship. A brother should know where his place is and as Alfred had grown up this much, he was expected to understand what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Arthur was ready to support him, of course, but he also knew his little brother had to be prepared to take his decisions for himself. He was an adult, responsible for himself. Or so Arthur wished him to be.

That was why he had grown used to Alfred's absence. Of course, sometimes the house felt empty without him and the memories of that strong little kid running in the garden still haunted him in his darkest days, but thanks to Francis, he had managed to keep on without damaging himself too much. Alcohol entered his life as soon as he could afford it, once Francis couldn't stand by him fully. Unfortunately for the both of them, it became the worst of his addictions.

He tried not telling his friend about the times he spent drinking liquor alone in the kitchen, or else he would've scolded him by saying _"Call me, you idiot! We aren't friends for nothing!_". But he never phoned. He was too afraid he would create trouble and it was the last thing he wanted to cause to Francis. Besides, it was for that inexplicable lack that he often fell for the bottle. He wanted to fill up the emptiness in his body and drowning himself seemed a nice way to get rid of his problems. In the morning, a number of pills well-ordered in the last shelf were taken, much to his liver joy. And water, water all day, along with painkillers. He still couldn't bring himself to eat, so he usually ended up vomiting everything at half-morning, but he didn't care much. He was pretty good at faking right now and the metallic taste of blood was slowly becoming a refined flavour he needed to lick at least once every three days. This made him extremely unhappy. And so, he cut himself.

Small cuts on his tights, so nobody could see them. Neither Francis. It was a spiral he wasn't sure he would be able to exit all alone, and still, he wanted no-one's help. Yet, Francis was there and everything seemed fine. Everything was perfect and the idea of parting was slowly replaced by the silly game he accepted to play.

"Here you have the rules: we'll ask the other what he would do if we did something, anything you come up with. There is no restriction of time and no possibility to refuse answering. What do you say?" Arthur explained simply, glancing at Francis interested expression.

"That sounds good! Who's going to start?" Was the positive reply. As he was offered the first question, his eyebrows curved into a thoughtful manner. "What would you do... If we lived in the same town?"

"What a strange question..." Arthur exclaimed surprised, before thinking over it. "I guess we would try to leave closer and closer."

"Like neighbours?" Francis asked curiously. The idea of having Arthur all for himself had been in his mind for a while now, along with some other questions he wanted to ask him now that the occasion has presented himself without expectation.

"Well, unless we marry again, we could also live together... to save more money, you know." Arthur replied simply. Having Francis around 24/7 could be worse than the deadly plague, but deep in himself, Arthur wondered if they wouldn't benefit both from the decision.

"Of course, since we would have only wine and cheap beer in the fridge!" Francis remarked, criticising his friend's bad habit. Deep inside, it hurt him not being able to do anything to help him, but what could he do? If Arthur didn't open with him, he just couldn't break his skull and read what there was inside. Still, he wanted him to quit. He was fed up with keeping silent about the sickness painted on his skin and the fear of losing him over something this stupid. He was the only one left. He didn't want to let him kill himself. Not him, too.

"Well, prepare to cook for the two of us everyday, then!" Arthur challenged smirking. Maybe having his dear Frenchman in the kitchen wasn't a bad idea. For all he knew, everything he prepared had a better taste than anything he himself could produce. And without burning a pan! Amazing. Really amazing.

"I wouldn't mind cooking for you at all. But at least promise you'll lay the table while I check the soup!" Every single day with someone at the dinner table. Francis could feel himself lighten up at the thought. He would cook every recipe he knew for the other, only in change of a little company. The house was so frosty and dark now that everyone had disappeared, that thanks to the different time zones, he managed to call Arthur when he was already almost free. Hearing his voice at the other side of the line gave him a reason to eat serenely.

"Fine, fine. What about going out for dinner every now and then?" Taking the car, choosing where to eat, splitting the costs in two... why did it sound so pleasurable?

"Thank you for showing appreciation for my cuisine!" Francis remarked with an offended tone. Of course he was mocking the other, but the idea of dining out together with Arthur was just too much for him. "What would you like to eat, then? Something spicy, something sweet... If you prefer some Chinese take-away to my crepes I'm going to shut you out of our house!"

Arthur laughed. He could picture Francis cursing him for ordering pizza instead of asking for one of his wonderful dishes. And he could also see them sharing the last beer watching the latest episode of Doctor Who, sucking even the last drop in the bottle. "What about Kebap?" Arthur then offered, spotting a Turkish sign at the end of the road.

"Trying to hit on me while munching on calf meat? You're so roman-"

"I mean now, git. If we had to go out together, it would probably be to a Japanese restaurant. Their sushi-sashimi is the end of the world!" He remarked with appreciation in looking for a place where to park.

"Look, over there!" Francis exclaimed in pointing at a now free-parking. "That doesn't sound too bad. The Kebap, I mean. And also the Japanese restaurant would be a great place for a dinner, but they make you pay something like 40, 50 Euros for only a small portion. What about a Greek one? There's a place near my flat which you'd surely like and the chef is renown internationally for his sauces. They also sell a great quality of Ouzo, which might interest you..." He added before opening the car-door and exiting.

Once Arthur had closed the car, they walked through the street still chatting, directed to the windows under the light-blue sign. "You should take me there, then. What about next time we meet?"

Francis smiled at the proposal. "Of course I will. If you're free, I wouldn't mind having you around the next week-end. I'll reserve a table there once at home, but I have to warn you, there will be place only on Saturday..."

"I'll probably take the plane, then. Checking in is much longer, but I'll surely arrive on time." Arthur replied in opening the door and greeting the guy on the other side of the counter. The place smelled vaguely of French fries and burn meat, but it was surely better than his too oily British recipes.

Francis nodded to the cook on entering himself through the glass door. "I could pay the return ticket, if it costs too much..."

Arthur ordered shortly, waited for Francis to command his meal himself and then spoke again. "Falafel? Will you let me have a bite? And I'm fine, don't worry. I can afford to pay the ticket for a 30-minute flight! It shouldn't cost too much in this time of the year, anyway. Just a thing, will you come and pick me up or I have to catch the tube?" He thanked the cook on grabbing his meal well-wrapped in paper, but as he was searching for his wallet to pay, Francis had already taken out enough money for both of them, receiving a glare as a thanks.

"_Merci." _He murmured as he put his wallet back in the pocket of his jacket and turned to leave. "_On y va? _And stop scowling, that makes you even uglier." Arthur blinked half-surprised half-crossed at the comment, bidding a quick good-bye before following the Frenchmen outside to sit together on a bench facing the square on the other side of the street.

"You shouldn't have paid, you..."

"You shouldn't be driving me to the station, and yet you do." Francis interrupted on offering his meal to the other. "Wanna try it?" Arthur snorted on sitting next to him, staring at the other's chosen food. Rolled up in a thin dough, there was surely some of that yoghurt sauce, along with some vegetables like onion, cabbage and salad and, well... Arthur still didn't know. He had to find out. Therefore, he leant in and took a big bite. After a few munches, he still hadn't got what it was.

"It'd fried for sure, but it's not potato... Meat, either. Or fish, for the matter. What's it?" He asked curiously, smiling for it tasted good, almost better than his usual choice.

"It's usually made by chickpeas, but I guess these are fava beans. Their taste is slightly different... I'll take you to Malais, the Hebrew quarter in Paris. There's a place specialized in this kind of dishes!" He informed before eating it himself. As he had swallowed his bite, he kept on. "By the way, just send me a message when you're leaving and I'll wait for you at the arrivals."

"Thank you." After some moments of silence, Arthur made another proposal. "What about strolling for a while in the park nearby before getting to the car? We still have one hour or so..."

"I've always envied the parks you have here in London... Do you think there'll be squirrels? I'd love to see some. But first, I'll go buy some water. I forgot to take a bottle before, sorry." After eating the last piece of bread, Francis stood up, collected the oily paper, throw it into a bin nearby and went into the shop once more, exiting it with a bottle of still water. As he sat down again next to Arthur, he offered him a drop, slouching on the bench.

Arthur accepted the offer and drank eagerly, not knowing himself he was that thirsty. They gazed for a while into the distance, blankly staring at the kids playing football in front of the oppressive Gothic church by their side. "Let's go." He almost ordered, forcing himself to stand up, sighing as Francis sighed.

They made a few steps still keeping silent, enjoying the freshness of the air tensing their muscles. Francis sucked in a deep breath, showing a large, sweet smile on his relaxed face. "Shall we continue our game?"

Arthur agreed nodding, trying to remember what question he wanted to ask him when he had proposed the game. Not remembering it, he went for something simple. "What would you do, if I got married again?"

Francis had never thought of Arthur celebrating another marriage. Yet, if he was asking, that meant that he considered still valid the idea of choosing a new partner. At any rate, this was just a supposition and it was surely better to ask. "Who's the lucky one, then?"

Arthur elbowed him for the question, causing him to move aside to avoid his arm. "No-one, you unbearable git! I just wanted to ask!"

"You wouldn't ask, if you hadn't someone in your mind." Francis took his place by his side again, when his eyes started to sparkle at the sight of the green grass of the park.

"Yes, you. Don't be stupid, I'm not going to get engaged to some other stupid slut who's going to dump me at the first occasion." He was almost mad as they entered the park, but his expression turned into a much calmer one as the scenario in front of them turned from grey to colourful and vivid.

"Me? Arthur, can you imagine us married?" Actually, Francis could. Not exactly married, but living together. He was sure that living in his flat would be much funnier if he had someone like Arthur nearby. Weirdly, he actually wanted Arthur to be there for him. Probably because no other woman attracted his attention after what had happened, was his response to these odd thoughts. Nothing sexual about it, he assured himself, just his company, his voice, his nervous way of speaking, his obsessive way of cleaning every shelf and his anger mixed to despair every time something got lost.

"You surely would be the wife. You're too frivolous to be my man!" Arthur stated sarcastically, enjoying the slightly crossed reaction of the other. He also tried imagining himself in the role of the good husband. "I would have to kiss you good-bye every time I leave." He considered, giving voice to his thoughts. When he realized it, he immediately turned to offer his excuses, turning pink a little. "Not that I would! I mean, a man kissing a man..."

Francis blinked, still surprised at the statement. "Well, I've got nothing against it, but still.." His eyes moved to the ground, as his mind tried picturing the scene. Arthur and him.. kissing? He had never thought of that before. He had imagined asking him to sleep together, since it seemed he got much calmer and slept better afterwards, but going to the point of kissing... He wasn't sure if he would like it or not.

Arthur was trembling, even though not so evidently. He had got quite nervous now, not knowing exactly what to say. Why the hell did he say such things? What would Francis think of him now? The silence that had fallen between them scared him, even more than the thoughtful expression painted on Francis' face. His face was burning in a mixture of shame and guilt, when the image of them kissing came to his mind. He couldn't describe the feeling he felt inside of him as he thought of them that close for the first time. It wasn't disgust or repulsion, no, he actually kind of liked it. Having the other so near... And yet, the silence between them was like a solid barrier that hindered him from imagining a vivid scene.

Francis turned with a question in his mind, which was forgot once he glanced at the reddened face of his English friend. He was walking somewhat faster, with the eyes staring to the ground, lost into some other universe. "Arthur?"

Arthur's head moved a little, to let him see who had called him. His breathe had slowed down since their entrance into the park and now, staring at those deep-blue globes both honest and serious at the same time, he felt the air in his lungs as barely sufficient. He moved a step aside, still followed by those sky orbs too serious and wide for the next question to be just a game.

"Arthur... What would you do, if I kissed you?"

* * *

-End Ch. 13


	14. Parting is such a sweet sorrow

_Français: _

_François, t'es tellement rigolo: _François, you make me laugh...

Quel temps qu'il y a en Angleterre: What a wheather they have here in England!

D'accord: well... (fine..)

Deutsch :

immer so liebevoll: always so adorable.

sicherlich: surely, for sure

_mein Führer : m_y leader. Arthur's calling Ludwig like that to make fun of him, so please, don't start a revolutionary war. I know Germans ain't all Nazis, dammit.

* * *

**Parting is such a sweet sorrow**

Arthur was laughing. Just right before his eyes, Arthur was covering his opened mouth with his hands, emitting loud chirps and rhythmic breathes, slightly bent over not to let Francis see his red face.

"Me and you.. Kissing?"

On speaking his mind, his laughter became louder. Even Francis faked a brief chuckle himself. Yet, inside he didn't feel like laughing at all._ François, t'es tellement rigolo... _Staring at Arthur slowly regaining his composure, he tried to force a smile upon himself, but unfortunately, only a miserable straight line appeared below his nose. Discouraged, he tried to justify himself before the other noticed.

"It was just a question.."

"The most stupid you could ever ask!" Still chuckling, Arthur replied bluntly on fixing his clothes and hair. With a sorry look and his arms folded in front of his chest, he let his eyes follow the frame in front of his. Tip-toeing on his feet, slightly trembling for the cold, with his hands well-hidden in the pockets of his jacket and a half-worried half-thoughtful expression on his face, Francis seemed to be tortured by some mysterious inner monster and, of course, Arthur had to save him.

"Are you alright?" His voice didn't come out as friendly as he wished, but too harsh and dry to give some comfort. Francis answered with a silent nod, before turning and walking back towards the exit-gate, lost into his own fantasy world.

"Francis?" Arthur followed him immediately, slightly alarmed by the sudden reaction. He didn't like Francis thinking too much over things, even less if he didn't know why. Moreover, they were chatting amiably just until a second before, what made things change?

"Hey, Frog! Don't run!"

Unexpectedly, Francis' pace had got even steadier and quicker, so in a minute they were already outside the park heading to the car. He would've kept on walking, if Arthur's hand hadn't managed to grab his arm and stop him.

"What's wrong with you?" He asked panting looking right into his eyes, which strangely now averted his own, staring at the pavement right next to them, even when Arthur shook him with impatience.

"We're gonna be late..." What managed to escape Francis' lips was nothing more than a murmur, a soft plea. He wanted to run away, suddenly suffocated by Arthur's presence. Not that he was irritating or bothersome, but that laugh... He had felt something inside of him cringing and breaking, something, which had made him breathless and yet unable to stuck air in his lungs. He stared at the hand shaking him and felt his skin burning under its touch. Unconsciously, his whole body stiffened, as a feeling of uneasiness started creeping inside of his brain. He swallowed, frowned and half-closed his blue eyes on rolling his arm to get rid of the grip. As he was free again, he stepped away from Arthur without giving him a glance. Instead, his eyes were on the pavement, counting the fossilized chewing-gums and the small hills of dirt moved by the wind.

Arthur didn't have to glance at his mobile to know it said otherwise, but he couldn't but walk by Francis' side to the car, ignoring the anxious tension that had started building between them. They kept silent like marble statues, each of them lost into his own thoughts. Thoughts of the concerned friend they had so close and yet so distant.

Francis' mind revolved around that laugh. Part of it tried to convince him that it was just a laugh, which had been nothing more than the right reaction to such a stupid question. It was just fair of Arthur to call it stupid, why, wouldn't he say the same? And yet, there was this strange feeling winging not on his mind, but wrapping his heart and making his breathing more difficult, his limps heavier, his skin warmer. It wasn't rage, but disappointment, and still, disappointment for what? What did he expect from Arthur?

His head turned, just to catch a glimpse of Arthur's eyes shifting to the side, as they had been concentrating on him for all the time. The emerald green of his eyes glimmered behind the sandy colour of his bangs, which shadowed the pearly whiteness of his skin, but not the livid pink of his lips. Thin, cherry lips, like a doll. His chin, always clean and smooth, not too prominent, but harmonious and his jawbone, well-seen under that porcelain skin. His skin, which turned darker under his head, there, where it connected with the neck and kept some of its shadows well-hidden from the light to paint them under the Adam apple, to make it look bigger than necessary before disappearing behind the jacket at every soft breathe.

Francis blinked, turning immediately his head. What was he doing? Was it Arthur's body what he had been exploring with his hungry eyes just a moment before? What, what, what was happening to him? He shook his head violently, snorting. Many confused thoughts had started piling one on the other inside of his brain and right now he felt like his head was ready to explode.

Arthur watched carefully. Francis' eyes moved from side to side, as he was looking for something in the desolate landscape. Empty eyes, searching for nothing. He was speechless, peeking to the side in case the right moment to say something came up. Yet, silence was the only one keeping them company until they approached the car.

Instinctively, Francis reached for the wrong door again, but he let Arthur say nothing, shifting to the back-seat door instead. Feeling as stung by a bee, Arthur tensed to the point of shivering at Francis' rude indifference. _Why wouldn't he sit next to me? _He kept on wondering, not able to give himself an answer. He was woken up by the vibrant tingle of the keys slipping from his grip and hitting the ground, bouncing next to his left foot. He sighed and knelt down to grab them, glancing at the other's possible reaction.

Nothing.

Munching the inside of his cheek, he straightened his back on choosing the right key. The lights illuminated the already lit-up interiors, welcoming the two with a cosy warmth. Arthur sat silently, turned the key in the hole and drove out of the parking lot with much confusion in his mind.

His attention was driven on the cold silence that had fallen like a barrier between the two, increased by their new distance. Glancing at his reflex in the mirror, Arthur could only catch half of his frame, too absorbed in the contemplation of the grey city running wildly to their sides. Knowing the streets of London, he was taking the longer way to get to the station, hoping they would break the silence before saying good-bye. Yet, an oppressive stillness floated inside the car, making his hands sweat cold.

He swallowed, coughing a little to attract some attention. Francis' eyelids closed slowly, as he reclined his head to the side, sighing. Now Arthur noticed he was holding the forgotten pillow of the night before tightly to his chest. They had never got it out of that car and it was still ready to give some comfort. Setting his mind on the road, he preferred not to say a thing, leaving the warrior and his shield alone.

Soon, signs indicating the way to the station to the lost ones started to appear all around, which saddened both travellers. Coping with the feeling of separation had always been the hardest part. How many times they had to part again?

Francis hugged the pillow even more tightly. He felt himself like puking at the idea of coming back. Alone, in that house.. He wanted to stay with Arthur. He knew this was selfish of him, childishly asking for his friend's company for... What for? He didn't know. His mind had turned into a giant big mess without him even realizing it. Arthur. He had always seen him as a true friend, a trustworthy, reliable, sincere friend. But his mind had started playing tricks to him. Not only did he wonder about a possible future together, but he also thought of their relationship as far closer. _What's happening to me? _Was his unsolved question, to which he could only answer by isolating himself behind a dark-coloured pillow.

"We're here." Was the only murmur that Arthur managed to whisper, as he was afraid to break the stillness inside the car. Abandoning the pillow, Francis closed his eyes, reached for his lent bag with one hand, looking for the handle with the other. A fresh breeze hit him in the face as he got off the car, forcing him to put his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold. _Quel temps qu'il y a en Angleterre! _Was his only thought before he started marching towards the entrance of the station.

Arthur followed him close behind, but his mind was too occupied on watching a nice movie about their afternoon together, searching cautiously for what details had caused such an end to pay attention to anything else. In the meantime, Francis gave a glance to the train for Paris, had his ticked dirtied by blue ink and limped like a wounded soldier to the right train. There, he turned to see Arthur's blank face.

"Time to go." He managed to say in a breath. It came out somewhat high-pitched, and he worried it might've sounded too anxious. Not that he cared, but his heart had immediately jumped as Arthur shifted his gaze and now he could feel it racing in his throat faster and faster as the tension kept on rising. Arthur replied with a firm suck on his lips, a nod and a resigned "Yes, time to go."

Francis nodded in response and jumped on the train. A whispered "Bye" was all he managed to offer before disappearing in the carriage. Hurt. Hurt and fear were battling in his chest, along with a broader confusion than before. Arthur would never follow him on the train, of course not. And he could not stay, no matter how much he wished to. Parting, parting was not a sweet sorrow, parting only kept him wondering if it had been for the better to cage himself between the pillow and the back-seat instead of talking to Arthur. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Why did his head hurt so much? He was only thinking of his best friend! Obsessively thinking of his best friend. He took out the phone from his pocket, feeling the need to call him, to say sorry, to explain the situation. But on dialing the right number, he realized he had no word to say.

Broken-hearted, Arthur walked away. Francis' behaviour hurt him deeply, but, worst of all, he couldn't find a possible reason that would justify it. What did he say wrong? He had just laughed at one of his stupid jokes! Of course, being together all the time would be nice, living in the same town a great chance and sharing the same home quite convenient, but they just couldn't! Or well, they could, but what would people say? Also, what if one of them wanted to marry again? "Sorry, my best friend is at home today. Oh, no, don't worry, we just live together!" C'me on, that would never work. Not for Francis, for sure. For him, well... He wasn't really keen on gluing himself to another blood-sucking parasite with a nice ass and a rotten heart. Not really. Still, Francis used to be a ladies' man and only because he was still swimming out of his crisis, that didn't mean he would set off for a hunt never again. However, his last question left him wondering. He actually had wished for the occasion to ask him the same many, many times, without having the right chance to do so. Yet, he had never asked himself what his position was on the thing. He was curious about Francis, not about himself! But now, thinking over it, he should've given himself an answer long time before.

"Stupid Frog." He hissed in sitting in his Bentley. _Stupid Arthur. _His mind added as the engine started roaring. His car hadn't exited the parking lot, that a blurry figure appeared behind the car and placed his opened hands on the wide back-glass, causing Arthur to press the stop pedal violently.

Still quite shocked, he shouted angrily on getting off the turned-off car, without even glancing at the idiot behind it. "What the BLOODY FUCK are you doing, you dimwit! I could've ki-" His voice dropped, as he saw Francis standing there, silently, with a small, sad smile on his face. His eyes were red and bewildered, but firm. Something was glowing inside of them, a new force, a secret that needed to be told.

Arthur froze on his place, blinking. "What.. What are you-" A horn. The train was leaving the station and Francis was there, smiling slightly yet awkwardly, his honest eyes pleading for a pardon which Arthur was not sure he was ready to give. He walked to him, frowning. He felt there was something wrong behind those clear eyes, but he could not see a thing in that azure sea. "Your train left..." He stated with an uncertain voice, as he was looking for a deny in the other. But the other just confirmed.

"Someone needs my apology." He affirmed simply, widening his sorry smile in search for approval. Arthur appeared seriously impressed in backing slightly with a certain look of surprise on his face. He surely didn't approve of such a stupid thing, but Francis' behaviour had been quite weird lately and yet, he couldn't blame anything on him, even missing his train just to come after him to be pardoned. Arthur's eyes were locked on the ground, keeping contact with the asphalt just to hide behind his bangs the water pooling under his green globes. He smiled sincerely, raising his head illuminated by his glistening eyes, glowing on offering his excuses.

"I do apologize for being such an incompetent friend."

There was no modesty in his words, but a note of hatred for himself, a certain guilt for not having apologized first and a resentment he could only feel. And sincerity, tons of sad sincerity, dripping down his lips as his soft voice spoke. He smiled bitterly, innerly glad that the tension had drifted away.

Francis laughed briefly, shaking his head on approaching Arthur. They were much closer now, so much, that they could almost feel the torpor emanating from each other's body. "May I come with you?" Francis indicated the car, making both realize that now he was stuck on the green island till late at night.

Arthur nodded, shifting to the side to let him get to his seat. Much to his contempt, Francis rushed to the front to sit right next to him. Eventually, he felt like everything had returned back to normal and got on his Bentley with a feeling of lightness dancing in his stomach.

"Do you mind me calling Ludwig? I'd rather let you in the office instead of leaving you in a smelly pub or alone in this old car." He immediately asked, just before making the engine roar a second time.

Francis tilted his head, nodding in response. "Please, go on." He added with a wave of his hand. Still, when Arthur had fished his mobile out of his pocket and started dialing the right number, Francis' voice reached his ears again. "Arthur... There's something I want to discuss with you once your call's over."

Arthur's eyes shifted more curiously than worriedly towards the frame next to him. He hadn't asked what he meant by that, when the called German at the other side of the line answered promptly.

"Scotland Yard, may I help you?"

"One could smell Bratwurst only by hearing you talk, Sir."

"_Immer so liebevoll_, Kirkland. Are you ready to show up or you need time to put more make-up on that sickly pale face of yours?"

"Sorry, mein _Führer_, but if the world's inhabited by wankers who ignore the basic rules of driving, that's not my fault for being late."

"Because _sicherlich_ you're NOT driving right now, are you?"

"No, but I could be. Who knows? Listen, what about having a Frenchman around for a couple of hours?"

A huff. "As long as he doesn't start insulting me like you always do."

"Thank you, Sir. And don't worry, he's just French."

"That's what worries me the most. C'me on, bastard. Move your arse, there's a pile of paper waiting for you."

"Oh, what a joy for my ears. See ye."

Soon the conversation was over and the mobile returned to his old place in the pocket. Arthur's hand shifted to the keys already inserted in the hole, while his eyes moved from the mirrors to Francis' face. Before turning the keys, he eventually decided it was better to have a talk face-to-face with Francis.

"There was something you wanted to discuss, isn't it?" He quietly asked, turning to have a complete view of his body, agitated by uneasiness. Francis wasn't much more comfortable than before. Actually, he was still looking for the right words to say, when a brave sigh flew out of his lungs, freeing him of part of his tension.

"Arthur... There's something bothering me about our friendship."

Arthur nodded, frowning on leaning on towards him. He wasn't completely at ease, but he needed to discuss it before something made them part."Please, go on." Why was Francis doubting their friendship so much lately? He wondered, looking for an answer in those wild eyes.

"_D'accord_, uh..." The words his messy mind had produced while dashing outside the station refused to reveal themselves again. Only a number of ghostly thoughts wheeled like a confused tornado in his brain, laughing at him gingerly. Arthur was looking more and more curious, even though a hint of concern had appeared at the angle of his mouth. "Arthur, I... I've got a problem."

His final confession was welcomed with a nod and a sincere look offering help, decorated with a gently-spoken question. "With me? I don't care if we're going to be late, let's just solve it together." He reassured in turning on the heat. It had strangely got colder inside of the car.

Even though Francis didn't manage to reply with a kind smile, his feeling more at ease had already calmed the vibrant tension inside of him. He licked his lips and let out a small breath. "Yes, Arthur. I've got... A problem with you."

_What have I done?_ He wondered immediately, mortified by what he had just heard. He tried unsuccessfully to collect his thoughts on where he had gone wrong in their relationship, but none was enough relevant. Still, Francis' hands had already glided to his own and were now holding them tightly, assuring him nothing was wrong with him. Even if lulled by their sincere hold, his mind refused to stop revolving about the idea of being himself a problem for his best friend. "Where did I go wrong?" He asked shamefully, averting his eyes for he had not enough strength to look into his blue pools directly.

"Arthur, you did nothing. I assure you, you did nothing at all. Absolutely. The fact is that.. well..." Francis' front lowered, hiding his face behind the shadows of his hair. As Arthur's fingers returned the pression on his hands, Francis tilted his head to the side and raised it up again, showing a new strange sparkling in his eyes. He sighed and opened his arms to offer a hug, which was gladly yet unsurely accepted by the other. Arthur leant in, wrapping his arms around his waist slowly, letting the warmth of his body pierce through his own. _Strange_, he thought, _why is Francis' heart beating so fast?_ His hand glided up to his shoulder and then down, trying to calm him without success, as its heart raced at an even quicker pace. Hushing him kindly, Arthur was still massaging his back moving his hand circularly, when Francis' breath reached his earlobe, along with his voice. "I'll be here for you, no matter what."

Hugging him closer, Arthur smiled on whispering back. "We're friends, of course we'll be there for each other." As soon as Arthur had spoken, Francis backed a little, until the point of their noses touched. His hands were still wrapped behind Arthur's back and his body was still curved on him, balancing itself only on one knee, but what Arthur couldn't decode was the mesmerizing way Francis' eyes were oscillating from right to left, until, tilting his head to the side, he let his lips caress his own.

* * *

-End Ch.14

"Good-night, good-night. Parting is such a swewt sorrow, that I shall say good-night till it'll be morrow." Thank you, Shakespeare. You're always useful.

AND... Ludwig's a policeman. Before you ask: they are using mobiles to communicate. It's forbidden to use the phone while driving (unless you use microphones or other), therefore Ludwig's warning Arthur that as a policeman, he's supposed to be the first following the law and NOT chatting on the phone while driving. Breaking this rule is sanctionated in my country and in many others, as well as in England. Thank you.


	15. Work work work

Francis-Belle dialogue -Complete translation:

*Good Afternoon, Monsieur Bonnefoy's Photographic Studio, how can I help you?*

"Belle? It's Francis. Listen, I won't be here tonigh, 'cuz-"

*Because you're an idiot. Or you had something better to do.. I say the second! Have you got a woman? What's her name?*

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm with Arthur!"

*So what? If there's Arthur, you can't be lucky?*

"Maybe I'm also lucky to be with him..."

*... François, you're hiding me something. I'm a woman, I can feel you lying.*

"Not at all, I'm hiding you nothing!"

*Where are you now?*

"In London, where do you think I am?"

*One never knows with you. Say, what I have to tell to the girls?*

"Tell 'em they can have the day off. You too, if you want. I won't be there anyway."

*Thank you, but Mr. Bonnefoy Photographic Studio just CAN'T close! And if I don't work, I go back to mix choxolat in Belgium... And no, thanks. I'm happy where I am. Plus, there's a strike tomorrow and my mates are popping in. Seen this all, There's no reason for me to get bored at home!*

"You're always the same! But when do you study? Say, I left my agenda at home, are we busy this week-end?"

*Ah-ah! You must be kidding me, Francis! there's always something to do here, you're the only one who never works! And yes, darling, we still have to take some pics for Mr. Karpusi.*

"Ah,yes... Aaand, I'll think about it once I'm there, okay? There are only 2 pics left... For when are they supposed to be ready?"

*Bof, he wants them for Wednesday, but remember he asked for an album with guys, too, and we have only girl models!*

"What, I'm a girl, too?"

*I often wonder..*

"Bastard. We'll find a solution, I promise. And, Belle? Can I call you later? I need some advice..."

*I knew you were hiding me something! Call me when you want, boss! But don't forget... I wanna meet her!*

* * *

**Work, work, work**

Francis' warm breath lingered on Arthur's lips, leaving only a light ticklish sensation on the kissed skin. The angles of his mouth were slowly turning upwards in a gentle smile, while his eyelids had just found the courage to part, when Arthur's hand violently pushed him backwards.

His wide, bewildered eyes showed a confused vortex of fear and shock, glistening in shifting from his face to his hands, like an animal in cage face to face with his guardian. He moved back to the door as for to escape, when Francis reassuringly raised his open bare hands in front of his chest, nodding his head slowly and never losing contact with his eyes. "It's fine, Arthur. Everything's fine. Calm down, please, just calm down."

"Calm down! YOU calm down! What's wrong with you!" Arthur shouted back, slightly trembling for he still couldn't figure out what was going on and yet, he still wasn't sure whether he could ever handle the situation himself. "Francis, what the fucking FUCK do you think you're doing?" He cried loudly, trying to find an answer to his confusion, but Francis just kept on staring at him straight in the eyes, repeating the same "Calm down, Arthur. There's nothing wrong going on, calm down." like a whispered chant.

Even though his frantic breathing hadn't turned more regular, Arthur got off of the car anyway, feeling the need for fresh air in his lungs. Francis' worried eyes followed him, the sparkle of hope glowing in them dying a little as Arthur slammed the door closed. He walked to the back of the car, as far as he could from those blue globes which spied on him from behind the opaque windows. There, he sucked in a good mouthful of fresh air, letting the coldness enter his body and refresh his mind. He exhaled, keeping his eyes closed to concentrate on the toxic steam leaving his body. Somehow, he felt purer and cleaner now. When his eyes peeked again from behind his eyelashes, they caught only a glimpse of the enormous space covered with cars and trucks in front of them, when the thought of what happened before crept on his mind again.

He licked his lips, sucked them, let them slowly emerge again glistening on leaning on the back of his vehicle. Balancing on his knees, he slipped down to sit on the cold asphalt of the parking lot, gazing into nothingness. Soon, the look on his face turned blank as he let his chin rest on his bent knees, embraced protectively by his arms.

_'What shall I do? What will WE do? Ain't we friends? Damn it! Fucking damn it! This is just so wrong, so very wrong! We just can't ki..." _In his mind, he couldn't even form the right word to describe the itchy sensation that too close contact had left on his lips. Yet, his imagination didn't stop playing the same scene over and over again. The glimmering of his bright eyes, the golden strands of his hair caressing his cheeks, the thumping of his heart against his ribs, the hot humidity of his breathing, that warm, wet, gentle touch under his nose. That seemed so perfect. _So perfectly wrong. _

He took his head in his hands in sucking in another deep breath. He wanted to understand, he needed to understand to work out a solution. A solution to what? _What's the problem, Arthur? What's the problem now? _Yet, the more he tried to figure out what to do, the more hopeless he felt. One minute he imagined himself shutting the door in Francis' face, the other he could see him apologizing and them both keeping on with their usual lives. Still, something in both this solutions was wrong, something made his insides cringe and twist and gasp for fresh air, because deep down he knew that both of those would cause his and Francis' unhappiness. He inhaled again, shaking his head slightly. The idea of being unhappy didn't scare him too much, but being without Francis... He was part of his life, he was the best part of his life and he just couldn't let him go. _Why did he have to make such a mess? _Oxygen entered his lungs again, as he stared at the empty grey sky looking for an answer. _What am I supposed to do?_

Soon, he felt the light vibration sent from a door closing running though his back. An unsure sigh, light footsteps, Francis in his visual. He took his hand out of his pocket and waved it at him tentatively. Arthur replied with the same wave, before tilting his head to the side to catch a better glance of him sitting down by his side. They stayed there in silence contemplating the vast empty ocean in front of them, lulled by the noise of cars moving, luggage rolling, people chatting, trains leaving. In their eyes, that world looked like a bad movie, playing itself all over again nonsensically, making noise but keeping in silence at the same time, as all its noise were nothing but a murmur in the background. Arthur placed his chin on his forearm and quietly spoke to Francis.

"We have to go..." His voice was distant, a melody lost in the memories of a past already forgotten. Francis' eyes glanced at him, before he closed them to inhale deeply and recover enough strength to stand up. Offering his hand to his friend, Arthur at first refused by looking the other way, but as Francis' hand didn't move from his place, he stretched his arm out to reach for his. Somehow, that brief contact made the idea of parting from him disappear. They had to keep on together. He was sure of that. But how?

Once they were the one in front of the other, Francis' eyes could eventually explore that face that hid itself behind those sandy bangs, those emerald puddles that tried to run away instead of creating a bridge connecting them. When Francis moved in, feeling quite uneasy at the slight distance that was dividing them two, Arthur's body stiffened, alarmed. His mind was still trying to make up a possible excuse for him to keep on with a perfectly normal life, knowing perfectly it was just impossible.

"Ludwig's waiting for us." Arthur reminded mechanically, as to warn him not to come any closer, before shifting to the side and quickly reaching the door-handle to sit into his right seat.

Francis sighed. His swollen lip was hurting from all the munching of the last minutes, when he thought of how stupid it had been to run to Arthur and just... kiss him. He couldn't bring himself to the point of believing his own action. He really needed to be cured. Whoever would be so idiotic to ruin a friendship like that? _Stupid Francis. Stupid Francis for not knowing what the hell to do now. You started, you should know how to keep on! _But even sitting next to him trying to find the right way to explain himself hadn't turned out the way he expected. Strangely, he didn't want to apologize, because, after all, he had liked that one kiss. He had liked the smoothness of Arthur's lips, their thinness, their pinkness, everything of them. He almost wished to touch them again.

He shook his head. _What the fuck is wrong with you? It's your best friend, damn it! Stop fantasizing about him, you idiot! _Still, the more he wished to stop thinking about him, the more he felt strangely attracted. A crave he hadn't felt in a long time and that he couldn't repress any way. Swallowing, he took enough bravery to march on and get in the car.

When he was sat next to him with his belt buckled, Arthur looked at him with piteous, sorry eyes. Taking in a deep breath, he asked quietly. "Francis... I don't know what's wrong with you now, but... Let's talk about it later, okay?"

Francis nodded. It was too a hell of a situation to disagree. Eventually, Arthur started the engine and they drove on in silence into the highway. Francis was peeking at him from the corner of his eyes, whereas Arthur's were fixed on the dark road, releasing the tension only through the hard grip he was keeping on the steeling wheel. Taking out his mobile, the Frenchman decided to call his secretary, just to advise her of his impossibility to be at work later that day and innerly pleading for someone to talk to.

*Bonjour, Studio Photographique de Monsieur Bonnefoy. Comment pourrais-je vous aider?*

"Belle? C'est François. Écoute, je ne serai pas là ce soir. J'ai raté mon dernier train, car-"

*Parce que t'es un idiot. Ou t'avais quelque autre chose à faire.. Je dis la seconde. T'as trouvé une femme? Comment elle s'appelle?*

"Sois pas ridicule, j'suis ici avec Arthur!"

*Et quoi? S'il y a Arthur, tu ne peux pas avoir de la chance?*

"Peut-être que j'aille de la chance quand-même avec lui."

*... François, tu me cache quelque chose. J'suis une femme, je le sens!*

"Pas du tout, j'te cache rien!"

*Où es-tu maintenant?*

"À Londres! Où tu penses je suis?"

*On ne sait jamais avec toi. Et alors, qu'est-ce que je dois faire avec les filles?*

"Dis-leur qu'elles peuvent avoir la journée livre. Toi aussi, si tu veux. J'serais pas là en tout cas."

*Merci, mais Le Studio Photographique de Monsieur Bonnefoy DOIT rester ouvert. Si je ne travaille pas, je retourne à mélanger chocolat en Belgique... Et non, merci. J'suis contente où je suis. Puis, demain il y a une grève et mes copains passe me voir. Vu tout ça, j'ai pas de raisons pour m'ennuyer chez moi!*

"T'es toujours la même! Mais quand t'étudies? Dis, j'ai oublié mon agenda, on est engagé ce weekend?"

*Ah-ah! Tu te moques de moi, François! On a toujours à faire ici, c'est toi qui ne travaille jamais! Et oui, chérie, il y a encore certains photos à faire pour Monsieur Karpusi.*

"Ah, oui... Eeet, je vais y penser quand j'suis là, d'accord? On manque juste deux photos... Pour quand il les a commandées?"

*Bof, il les veut pour Mercredi, mais rappelle qu'il a demandé aussi des mecs pour son album et on n'a que des mannequines!*

"Quoi, j'suis une fille aussi?"

*Certaines fois je me demande..*

"Bâtarde. On trouvera une solution, j'te promets. Et, Belle? J'te peux appeler plus tard? J'ai besoin d'un conseille..."

*Je savais qu'il y avait quelque chose dessous! Appelle-moi quand tu veux, chef! Mais n'oublie pas... Je veux la connaitre!*

Francis smiled at the display of his mobile, where the illuminated screen showed a smiling young Belgian who had just cut off the line with a laugh.

"Belle?" Arthur asked curiously. The talk distracted them both, fortunately, and made the general atmosphere more relaxed. Also, the warm blow exiting the air conditioner was giving his contribution to the cosiness of the small vehicle, which was even better.

"Yep." Francis answered with a nod in putting away his mobile. Arthur nodded too. He didn't know the girl too much, since she'd been working for Francis for less than 6 months, but her reputation was enough to picture her at a nice young woman.

"How's she doing?" He tried to keep the conversation alive, hating the silence as much as having got only half of what the two had told each other.

"She's fine. Studying at University, taking good marks, working for me,... She's gorgeous, creative and active. I'm glad she's no more in that rehab centre." Francis always tried to skip this part when with her friends, but now he needed a topic and Arthur seemed enough interested in Belle's life, that it was the only way to keep on with the conversation. "Yep, I'm so very glad she's no more on the street."

"She used to live in Belgium, right?" Arthur already knew the answer, having she told him part of his previous experiences herself, but since the Police Station seemed so far away, having something to discuss was appreciated as much as needed.

"When she was little, she did. Her parents were actually from Amsterdam, but she was brought up in Belgium by her grandma."

"I still don't get why she would leave Bruxelles for Paris. I mean, what's the point in leaving the capital of the UE?"

"She didn't have a good relationship with her grandma, to be honest. So, being a kid without parents and living with a granny who didn't get her a single bit, brought her to leave everything behind as soon as she fell in love with one of those punk that put in their veins every kind of shit."

"Oh... I didn't know... Sorry for her. Really."

"Shit happens, she usually says."

"Couldn't she just go back home once it was all finished?"

"Arthur... She was pregnant. And believe me, staying away from home was for the best."

"Oh. ...Well, what happened then?"

"She lost the baby. And the father, along with all her money. The only thing left to her was that drug addiction she'd never wished for."

"At least she hasn't got any STD..."

"God, you can't say what a work was to put her back in place. I took her in because I needed help with some documents and a friend of mine suggested I should give those rehab programs a try... And she proved to be such a good worker, that there's no way I'm firing her in the next months. But the start was traumatic for both..."

"I can imagine..."

"But now we're together. As workers, I mean. And oh, she's so good at photography, you should see her! She's a bomb when working with chemicals! And when she speaks about school... She sounds so happy! By the way, she would like to meet you."

Arthur blinked. "Meet me? Why?"

"Dunno. Probably, you left a good impression last time you came by."

"I spilled wine all over her blouse... God, I was so mortified... And it was our first dinner together! At any rate, you haven't sent me the laundry bill yet, remember it, please."

"I will, don't worry. We could meet her this week-end. Because you're coming over, aren't you?"

It seemed all so similar to their usual conversation, Arthur thought. But somehow, it was all so different. Francis' voice hid a certain expectation, an anxious question he couldn't express with words, but he managed to conceal not revealing part of his thoughts. Arthur, he knew perfectly well, wasn't being sarcastic at all, finding in every little hint of that speech a possible remark to the final question he had to ask him sooner or later. But now, it just wasn't the right moment. Yet, those eyes were looking at him with a different gleam in them, a glistening of hope mixed with desire, wish, crave for the time of his life.

"I suppose I will, yes. But first, we have to find a way to let you get back home."

Francis smiled. He knew perfectly well which way to take. "Just give me the phone and you'll see."

Arthur simply smiled, both to the answer and to the parking lot welcoming them as they got to Scotland Yard. He turned the key in the hole, glancing at Francis, who wasn't moving out of the car at all. Blinking questioningly, he received an encouraging tilt of his head. He sighed annoyingly, glaring at him.

"We'll discuss that... thing later, Francis." But as Francis' eyebrows raised in a murmured plea, he added. "Work, now. And think of some clever explanation or you're not seeing me ever again." With that, he exited the car to stomp to the entrance, trying to make his thread more serious than it actually was. Francis watched him walking away, took the keys and followed him closing the car, thinking over some clever explanation different from the usual 'I've always loved you'. Arthur would've killed him for his dumbness and moreover, that wasn't true... Right?

As soon as he entered the building, a receptionist intercepted him with a wave of her hand and accompanied him to Arthur's office on the first floor. Francis knew her too well, as Arthur's been speaking over and over of her refined, perfect way of filling up forms.

"Miss Zwingli, it's a pleasure to meet you again. How are you?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bonnefoy. Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Kind of stressed, but it must be the season changing. What about you? Everything's fine there in... Paris? I always forget where you live..." She confessed with a sincere smile. She was a fine girl, after all. Sometimes too conservative in her ideas, but a pleasurable company for everyone. That was the main reason for her position at the reception desk, as she never sent anyone to Hell without a smile on her cute face.

"That's right and yes, I'm doing fine, thanks for asking. And what about your brother?"

"Neh, he's always the same. But he's been sued only twice this month! I'm so proud of him! Just think that Mr. Beilschmidt and him bet that if this year ends without him being sent to prison for more than a month, they will offer beer to every bobby working here!"

Francis' eyes smiled at her sweetness. She was really a nice girl. They kept on their conversation in entering the elevator, when he noticed the pile of documents she was carrying around. "Would you like me to help you carry some?"

Lily blinked, never losing her brightness, before replying with a light nod. "Don't worry, it's just paper. Come now, we're almost there. You're lucky Mr. Beilschmidt knows you, or else you would have to wait outside like a good dog."

"I do consider me lucky, Miss Zwingli. Mr. Beilschmidt is surely one of my best acquaintances and to be honest, I've always admired him for his discipline and care. And now, thank you for your help, I would've ended up lost in this labyrinth of cement." He was lying, he knew that, but lying for the best, if this even made sense. Not thinking too much over it, he held out his hand to shake Lily's. "Have a splendid day, Miss."

"Thank you, Mr. Bonnefoy. It's always nice to have someone so smart to talk to! Too often these peasants seem to enjoy making fun of us policewoman, whereas you are always so kind. Thank you and have a nice stay." With the same fake smile, the young girl disappeared behind the corner, determined to bring those forms to their right owner.

Francis let his circumstantial smile drop, took a deep breath and knock to the door, waiting patiently until he heard a voice inviting him to enter. As he walked in, he was welcomed by Arthur's nod and Ludwig's hand waving.

"So here's our host for today. Good afternoon, Mr. Bonnefoy. Are you going to leave our Arthur in peace and let him work?" Ludwig always had the best manners to talk to people. He wasn't a bad guy, he just didn't like people wasting their time. And that Frenchie was a possible threat to Arthur's work. He had been, he could still be.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving in a minute." He remarked quietly, looking at the German with a certain air of superiority. He didn't like him a single bit, not the way he spoke, not the way he dressed, not the way he sat, so close to Arthur, nearer than him. "Arthur, you left these in the car." He said with a smile, tingling the keys in his hands before launching them to the desk. Before exiting the office, he informed quietly. "I'm having a coffee. What about you?"

Arthur took the keys in his hands and turned to place them into the pockets of his coat. "No, thanks, I'll have some later. Go on without me, please. There's a room around the corner where you can have some, just ask if you can't find it. And take my cup if you want, there's my name on it, but wash it in the sink, okay?"

"Perfect. I'll ask Lily if she's up for a pause, then. Bye, have fun scribbling on those forms!" He waved his hand in leaving the room, happy noticing Arthur had given him so much attention, without glancing at Ludwig even once. In turning the corner, yet, he stopped to think over it. Why should he care about Ludwig? He was nothing more than Arthur's boss, why shouldn't he look at him or speak to him, anyway? The thought troubled him for a while, until he saw Lily at the end of the corridor and invited her to join him.

"That guy's annoying." Ludwig stated once Francis had left_. What a nuisance! Can't he just leave Arthur alone?_

"He's French, annoying by definition." Arthur answered calmly, checking the signatures of a couple of documents, not really paying attention to what he was being said.

"I still don't get why you are friends." The German asked with a certain curiosity. That French had always been a problem in his eyes, obliging Arthur to care even less for his own self. Sometimes he even accused him to be the reason for Arthur's divorce and consequent unhappiness, but the thought never left his mind. One couldn't say how Arthur would react to such accusation.

"Neither do I, Ludwig. Yet, we are." He replied quietly, adding another paper to the "Done" pile of forms. He found Ludwig's interest for his relationship with Francis quite bothersome, but he couldn't say a thing. Still, he tried his best to keep a straight face and dodge his questions. Why would he want to answer them anyway?

"Wasn't he supposed to have already vanished?" He asked with a certain malice. Actually, he only knew he was staying with Arthur till that morning, that's why he had given him half the day off, but having him around the Station... He so wanted him to fade away.

"That's not out fault for the Eurostar to be leaving always so soon, Ludwig." Arthur replied mechanically, taking another form in his hand, sighing. What a bad handwriting! This, until Ludwig informed perplexed.

"But Arthur, the Eurostar isn't going anywhere today."

Arthur raised his gaze to stare at Ludwig as he had just given his the most terrible news in the world. "What?"

"The Channel's closed today. Even the ferries aren't moving!"

"The Channel's.. closed?"

"Yes, the guys at Pas-de-Calais decided it was too risky to keep the tunnel open with such a bad whether. French cowards, scared by a stupid storm! By the way, I sent Vash to your place to check if it was all fine. He said something about a lamp-post, but I can't remember rightly..."

Arthur looked at him utterly shocked. "But we heard the train for Paris leaving!"

"Are you sure it was the right train?" Thinking of it, Arthur had only heard a train leaving, but never checked if that was the right one. Raising his gaze, he met Ludwig's eyes, lucid for the jolly confusion he was feeling inside.

"No..."

"Anyway, I heard you can convert your train ticket with a flight. Quite convenient, isn't it? That's what our bobbies in Dover told me, at least..."

"Ah-ah..." So Francis had just ran back to him for nothing? But then... Why the kiss? _Why? _If he just needed a lift, he could've called him. There was no point in troubling himself with that. Coming back, calling him, maybe saying he was sorry... Everything would've been fine anyway, then why the kiss? _Francis, why are you so stupid?_

"Arthur, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Ludwig." Arthur stood up, took the forms he had checked and walked to the door without even glancing at him. "I'm taking this stuff to the archive. See you."

"Ja... See you." Ludwig said, following Arthur with half-curious half-worried eyes before standing up himself as he heard a shrill cry outside the room. "What's happening?" As he dashed outside the office, he almost trampled over Arthur's body, which had ended up on the floor as walking out of the room he had run into Francis and his coffee. There was anger in his eyes. So much rage and hate, that he feared to come closer his green-eyed employee.

* * *

-End Ch. 15


	16. A Thousand of Drops

**A Thousand of Drops**

"You spilled coffee all over my shirt!"

"Beg there's not a single drop on here or that shirt will turn red with blood!" Arthur hissed collecting the forms hurriedly, checking them quickly before making a chaotic pile out of them. He was angry, angry at the world, at Francis, at himself, so mad that he could tremble. When Francis handed him a paper that had ended up on the other side of the corridor, he grasped it violently from his hands glaring at him with pure hatred. He had lied to him. His best friend had lied to him. How could he trust him any longer?

Sneering, he clutched all the paper with his quivering hands and headed towards the elevator under everyone's surprised stare. He pressed the red button, insulted the too-slow opening doors and stomped in furiously, not noticing Francis had followed him inside.

"What the hell are you doing here? Get out!"

"No, first you tell me what's going on!"

"Get. OUT!"

"ARTHUR!" Before he had the time to protest, Arthur had already kicked him out the elevator, much to the by-standers' surprise. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU STARING AT?" He yelled noticing the small crowd peeking from the end of the corridor, before the metal doors closed in front of his wrinkled face.

As the usually ordinary, dull Arthur disappeared, everyone's eyes moved to Ludwig, whose silent dropped jaw was the insufficient answer to all their unsolved questions. Especially Francis'.

"Beilschmidt, what did you do to Arthur?" His face were burning with mad fire as his fist clenched to his sides in approaching him. His azure globes, so vivid and calm, were now lucidly flaming as an insane crave for smashing his head against the wall crept into his sick mind. Ludwig's blank expression clearly transmitted his total ignorance as well as his absolute confusion, but seeing him so clueless only made Francis more enraged. He stomped up to him, feeling his own tensed body quivering, but thankfully the left sane part of his brain forced him to keep quiet and still.

Feeling the tickling of the other policemen's eyes on them, he glared at Ludwig with such hate and disdain, that he had to lower his eyes until Francis elbowed him shoving him to the side and entered Arthur's office slamming the door with such violence, that he was afraid he might've broken it. Awkwardly, but still trying to make it look like an imposing order, Ludwig coughed. When the mixed noise of computers and murmurs filled the silence, magic vanished in the air.

Only Arthur couldn't feel the newly established atmosphere of hypocrisy and fake smiles there on the second floor, as he was too busy walking up and down the corridors of the main archive on the second underground level, looking for the A filing cabinet. He often shook his head to keep away the guilty feeling in the back of his brain threatening to take over his mind by trying to concentrate on his work. When the last catalogue was eventually closed, a sudden wave unbalanced him to the point he thought he was falling. On leaning on the cold wall next to the elevator, his mind wandered to his office upstairs, where Lily, Ludwig, and, most important of all, Francis, were waiting for him.

He wrapped an arm around his waist, feeling suddenly sick. He didn't want to meet them, he didn't want to give explanations. There, under the soil, silence was a sweet lullaby that calmed his senses with its freshness. Only the light footsteps of some soul walking up an down the floor above him kept him company, a discreet company that asked no more than to ignore him.

He slid down the wall, cold in his own embrace, as he let the small and frail part of his own self suggest him faint memories. "Why are you still alive?" He kept wondering, remembering the times where he felt real happiness. Francis and him running through the golden-coloured hills, his hair swinging in the wind, his laugh as he shouted "I'm so happy we're together!", while heading back home always too late for dinner. _He used to hold my hand..._ Arthur thought, _He used to take me to the wood..._ but that was before he found _her_. Once, they had even cancelled one of their meetings because of _her_. The feeling that since from the start _she_ had had the purpose to to take Francis away from him was still persistent in his mind like an unwashable bloody stain. But now, she was gone. And Francis was... Francis was upstairs, waiting for him. "Why are you still alive?" His inner child asked him again. Everyday, he had smiled and replied "Wait. Tomorrow I'll have an answer." But tomorrow after tomorrow, the answer had never come. And alone, he had listened to his inner self sad and deceived, crying. Sick of life, absolutely sick of everything, he had just let all his strength fly out of his body and vanish in the thin air. Somehow, he now felt that was not fair. Not a single bit. He had the impression he had had many occasions in life, but he had just let them knock at someone else's door, because of his natural cowardice. He could rant on saying it was only suspiciousness, every man's best ally, but actually, always he had been too afraid of showing his real self to the others_. Stupid. Arthur, you're the dumbest person on the face of Earth!_ Alone on the underground level, he somewhat now wished he had let Francis come down with him.

Opening his eyes with a sigh, he enjoyed the view of the grey shadows dancing rhythmically with the flickering light, before he decided it was high time to stand up and hurry. Still, humidity had covered his pearl skin with its watery blanket that kept him stuck to the wall, refusing to let him escape. With an incredible effort, he managed to tense his muscles and slowly straightened up. He still had work to do, after all.

Sliding to the elevator, he entered it shielding his eyes from the sharp light which hindered him the view of the right button, cursing the terrible music playing in the metal trap. He sighed, wondering what would happen there on the surface. A ting. Doors opening, people chatting, some stares.

He could feel the workers' eyes spying on him from behind the curtains of their offices, silent comments escaping their lips well-hidden behind a cup of coffee or tea, newspaper and magazines unfolding only to cover them up as they peeked through the pages_. Hypocritical bastards._ He thought on approaching his office, pretending to ignore Lily's green eyes following him behind Ludwig's mirror-glass window.

When Ludwig's heavy steps were heard behind the white door of his room, he quickened his own pace to reach the handle sooner. Being too busy escaping from Ludwig, it didn't occur to his mind that Francis was nowhere to be seen, so he was quite shocked when he met his scowling figure as soon as he entered his own luminous cage.

He quickly slammed the door, closing the world outside. A knocking Ludwig was also neutralized by turning the key and drawing the curtains. Still, Francis did not disentangle his folded arms. He kept staring at him suspiciously with a hint of eagerness in his blue orbs, which rolled up and down behind his half-lidded eyes to catch every detail of Arthur's frame.

Narrowing his gaze, he bluntly said. "You cried."

Treating him with contemptuous disregard, Arthur took a seat in front of him, noticing just now that he was occupying his place. "Of course I did. Still, if you weren't a sodding git, I probably wouldn't."

"Would you care to explain, then? Because you were already crossed when you walked through that door." They were exploring each other's figures with serious, caring eyes, looking for answers beyond those empty words. In the end, they both knew someone could've been listening to them behind that same white now-locked door.

"Only an imbecile frog like you would never miss an occasion to make assumptions on his own."

"This is not an assumption, low form of warm beer chugger. That's a matter of fact. So, would you care to give an answer?"

Arthur looked at him with challenging eyes. "No, I do not care."

Francis smirked."Perhaps because you do not dare?" There was a curious light in his eyes, even though he was truly worried about those lucid globes dyed in red. Still, he enjoyed Arthur's nervous reactions. He always managed to notice a new detail: his quivering composure, a wrinkle to the side of his mouth, his eyes trembling slightly. He could say whether he was lying by looking at his nose dilating. When he was troubled, the vein to the left of his neck tended to pulse and when embarrassed, his ears turned lightly pink. Once he enjoyed teasing him only to discover something new about the way he tortured his hands when thinking or the rhythm of his breathing when pressured, but now, now he felt all those little details meant something more. And he felt stupid, stupid, because there was something so enticing about Arthur, that he hadn't been able to see before. His eyes narrowing to a fine, golden line, while his whole body stiffened as soon as anger had drawn pink across his cheeks enthralled him tenderly. _Arthur... _

"What do you want?"

Francis frowned, awaking from his daydream. That wasn't the question he was expecting. Actually, he was expecting no question at all. "Nothing, but an answer."

Arthur snarled like a fire-breathing dragon ready to give battle. "Well, answer this, instead. Why didn't you tell me your train wasn't leaving?"

_How would he know? _Francis swallowed, feeling himself cornered. Who the hell told him about the train? When he had left him behind to look at the departure time, the time-table clearly said all trains heading to Dover would not cross the Channel that day, yet he was sure Arthur had been too absorbed in his thoughts to notice. "Who told you so?" He could only reply, insulting himself right after that for admitting the evidence.

"You, now."

Arthur's eyes didn't hide his clear disappointment. _No wonder he's so mad at me_! And yet, there wasn't only rage in those green globes. There was something more, something Francis couldn't decode. "I... I really didn't know." He tried lying, hoping the surprised expression on his face would make up for it.

"Lies." Arthur's anger was increasingly building up in his thin body, making his blood boil and rush up to his face, heating and reddening to the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears. So much rage, that he could barely keep his lucid eyes open.

Francis swallowed again, feeling his mouth incredibly dry. He tried looking away, but those eyes followed him like hounds hunting a prey. His anxious heart was skipping faster, while his mind was trying to work out an answer that would satisfy both of them. Sighing, he decided the truth was the best reply. "You're right, those are all lies. But Arthur, listen, I really needed to apologize for... a lot of things. And it's not the same saying 'I'm sorry, now can I stay with you till I find a way to get back home?' and 'I don't care if my train's leaving, I needed to apologize first.'. Now, you would agree they do sound different, do you?"

Nodding encouragingly, Francis munched on his lips. Luckily, convinced by Francis' honest look, Arthur sighed lowering his gaze. Of course, he was right. Knowing himself, he would've probably questioned their friendship a lot more if he had said sorry just like that, as if they were only friends for benefits. "Then, why the kiss?" He asked suddenly, not processing the thought in his mind as he spoke and immediately regretting it once realizing it had come out too loud.

Startled, Francis quickly moved his eyes to the floor as he sucked his lips in searching for something to say. He really didn't know why he had that strange need for Arthur in his mind, but it had been torturing him for too much, that when the occasion had come, he simply had to... do something. Anything. Not that he regretted it now, but...

Peeking to the side, Francis inhaled deeply through his nostrils before tentatively say. "Maybe, there is something else you should know..."

Arthur blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. _Oh, no. He's not saying-_ His eyes widened at Francis' faint smile and he could only shook his head, stand up and run to the door, push the handle finding it locked, quickly turn the key in the hole and dash out elbowing a couple of by-standers to go lock himself in the restroom. There, found a comfortable stall and made it his ivory tower, away from the mess of the real world, he collapsed on the fresh floor. _Absurd. This is absurd! This is completely insane! I am- Francis is- Francis! God, what the Hell am I doing now! _With his head in his hands, he was failing in giving his thoughts a sense, when a well-known ringtone woke him up from his trance-like status.

The lit-up display of his mobile showed a yellow pop-up. "Text from: Francis B." He threw the mobile to the side, decided to ignore it. For five seconds, after which he grabbed it again and pressed the green button to open it.

*_Sorry*_

He sneered. How many times had he told him that a sentence ends with a full-stop? Still, he appreciated his apology, although it made him feel somewhat guilty. After all, he had run away without saying a thing and surely, it wasn't Francis' fault for... For what? Arthur now realized Francis actually hadn't confessed anything at all. He had just friendly smiled before he himself had, well... over-reacted. _But only a little bit._

"Sorry for what?" He texted back, holding the mobile in his hands until it rang again. The idea of silencing it came to his mind, but it was soon gone as he was more attracted by the new message received.

_*Dunno, thought it'd be a good start. R U OK?*_

Arthur smacked his front in reading the answer. _How can he be so stupid? _And yet, he smiled. Francis' sincerity sounded ridiculous, even quite childish via text messages. _Can't he just tell the truth by speaking? Of course not, M. Bonnefoy needs to text!_ Still, he didn't particularly fancy the idea of he himself facing an open-hearted conversation. _Might he be doing that... for me?_

"It is a good start indeed. You know you can send up to 160 letters and it'll still figure as 1 text?"

_*What R U implyin by that?* _Arthur snickered. He wasn't trying to be mean, but seeing all those abbreviations... By the way, where did he learn to abbreviate in English?

"You sound American."

_*Still, I'm French!*_

"Fuck, I'm doomed."

*_Bastard. Where are you?* _Arthur's smile got smaller when he realized he was still freezing his bottom sat on the floor, locked in a stall. _As if I were hiding from him._ Standing up to sit on the toilet, he stared at the white screen for a while. Many thoughts twirled in his brain. Some vile, some witty, some... Some saying that was an occasion to seize. He sucked in a good mouthful of air and texted. "Away from you."

He waited for a while, unsure about what the other would reply. He wanted to correspond his honesty, to let him know what he really thought of the whole situation. Yet, he felt even more confused than before. He was starting to regret his action, when the phone rang. It was getting annoying, though, so he set it on vibration before pressing the 'Open' button.

_*So am I. Can I reach you?*_

Arthur bit his lip, not sure about what to answer. It was all new for him, exciting but frightening at the same time, and the worst was, that on the other side of the screen, there was someone he cared too much for to lose. Yet, what was Francis trying to do?

"Why?"

What was he supposed to do? He knew. He was supposed to go back, ignore him and keep on working till the end of the day. That would be perfect, he thought. _No, it isn't, you surrendering tool_. When would the next occasion cross his path? Probably never again. And who knew what Francis would do if rejected! Keeping on seemed so difficult, but somehow, he felt it was the right choice to take. _Francis, what are you doing to me?_ He was rubbing his eyes with his fingers, when the mobile sent a vibration though his hand.

*_You make me feel less lonely...*_

Arthur swallowed. Francis, Francis, Francis... and him. Arthur looked up to the ceiling, where the whiteness of the cerulean dye met the wet greyness of a stain of humidity. All he had been wishing for was to have someone to take care of, someone to belong to, someone to wake up next to in the morning and to say good-night before sleeping. He read the text another time, munching hungrily on his lower lip. Not a woman, but a man was offering himself to grant his wishes. Not a man, but the man he was sure would really grant all his wishes. He bit his upper lip. _Could Francis be this Someone?_

"You do, too."

He had already pressed the 'Send' button, when he regretted it deeply. _Wait, wait! I'm not ready! Don't send, don't send, don't sen- _But it was already sent. _Fuck! _He wasn't completely sure about what he wished to be answered. Actually, he even didn't understand too well what he was actually feeling. It was a mixture of anxiety, curiosity, sincerity, fear, wishes and expectations, which he couldn't describe with a proper name. Yet, seeing himself constantly checking the mobile, wondering what he was thinking of him, brushing his shirt to appear somewhat in order... he felt something was really changing in himself. And he didn't understand how that was possible.

_What would you do if I kissed you?_ I would run away, he answered mentally as he remembered the events of the early afternoon. Still, he wasn't sure any more. In his mind, a colourless movie started playing. He saw himself in Francis' arms, he saw the happiness in their eyes, he saw the way he blew on his lips before touching them with his own. He felt the warmth, the joy and a slight jealousy for his own fantasy. _It just seems so right._ As the phone vibrated, he came back to reality, feeling the smile on his face broaden on discovering a new text on the display. Maybe, maybe next time he himself would make his fantasy jealous.

_*I need you...*_

Arthur slowly breathed through his nostrils. He still had many doubts about what to do with his life, with his friends, with his job and yet, he felt the void in his chest filling up. _Sorry_, _Life, but I want to be happy_. "Restroom, 3rd stall."

He had just sent the text, that the restroom door opened with a loud clacking and some fast footsteps stumbled to his stall, until a bump and a trembling of the yellowish wooden door made him jump. There was someone panting on the other side, he could hear him swallowing while catching his breathe. "A-Arthur? Arthur, are you in there?" When he heard the soft voice from the other side, he swallowed uneasily, stretching his arm out to touch the stranger behind the wooden shield. "F-Francis?" He called, almost in a whined whisper.

"Arthur! Arthur, are you okay?" Francis' concerned voice called from the other side of the the stall. He must've pressed himself against the door, as Arthur saw it tremble dangerously under his knocks.

"Yes...Yes, Francis, I'm fine." Arthur replied in placing a hand against the cold wood of the stall. He was there, he was on the other side, he came for him. But 'He' was no more the Francis who'd entered his house the day before. No, he was someone else, someone different, someone he knew and yet didn't, someone he cared for much more than he expected. It was a new Francis, a Francis he wanted to accept, respect, love. "And you? Are you alright?"

"No, Arthur, no! I can't be alright with you closed in there! Now open this door, will you? Please! Please, let me enter!" The door trembled again. Was he trying to kick it down? "Arthur, I promise! Everything will be fine, everything! We'll forget about this and-"

"Move aside, you idiotic fat git, how can I open it if you don't stop punching?" Francis turned silent and stepped back. As the cold metal of the handle brushed his fingers, Arthur looked down to it. The last door, and they would be together. But, did he really want to let him walk into his life? He straightened up, sucked in air, turned the handle. _Yes. _

When he opened the door, he found a flustered Francis rushing in to hug him. _God, I already regret it._ He backed a little to let him in, locked the door again and turned to have enough space to wrap his arms around him himself. His hands drew long circle on his back as he tried to calm him down. _Desolé desolé desolé... _He kept on chanting in holding him between his arms, until Arthur advised him to move his arse aside or he would kick him out of the Francis in front of him, Arthur could easily catch sight of his golden hair, the blue of his eyes, the awkwardness of his smile, his too long stub. He smiled sweetly. "You're better than I remembered."

"Uh?" Francis frowned in confusion. What was up with Arthur? He was so mad just a minute before, that he thought they would have shouted at each other's face before eventually settling down and have a cup of coffee together. Yet, the honey smile he was wearing melted him on the spot. He was ready for a fight, not for his gleaming eyes.

"Francis, you're a wanker. In a million years, you'll still be a wanker. Probably, you're the dumbest form of cheese-eating monkey on the face of Earth and..."

"You really take pride in insulting me..."

"Shut up, I'm not done. ...and you really know how to get on my nerves."

Francis kept silent. Arthur was lecturing him -_lecturing? Scolding? Insulting?_-, but there was neither anger in his words, nor hardness in his insults, nor resentment in his tone. Instead of a wrinkle of disdain, a faint smile danced on his lips. Maybe was he enjoying himself?

"Francis, you surely remember the 'something else' you mentioned before, don't you?" Arthur murmured softly, now quite worried someone might hear them. He still wasn't sure about what to say to the others, actually, he hadn't considered their reactions yet, and yet now, now he was sure about what to say to the man next to him.

"I-I do, Arthur. But as I told you-"

"Francis, look at me." With Arthur so close in that restricted space, his eyes could easily roam on that trim body. He let them inspect every detail, every curve, every shadow under the white shirt of his uniform, as apparently Arthur didn't mind the attention. He blinked. Surely, Arthur was the furthest thing to Beauty in the world and yet, yet there was something incredibly attracting in him. Maybe the eyes? The lips, the neck, his frame, his hips...? Francis swallowed, as Arthur's smile turned into an unknown smirk. An absurdly enticing smirk. "Arthur..." As the other raised his eyebrows _-Dieu, if he's not plucking them, I'm going to shave them off completely!-, _he felt the words refusing to come to his mouth.

"That's right, Francis. I'm not pretty, not even pleasant. I'm a noisy bastard, a lazy drunkard, a sarcastic commoner whose head is too often in the clouds."

"That's not true..."

"That is and you know that. I tend to be violent towards furniture, to shout when not understood, to drink industrial amounts of tea, to enjoy idiotic things such as cartoons, to be punctual and stand in queue as if my life depended on it." A glance. A breathe. "I love well-tailored suits and well-tailored dresses, I'm too fond of beer to give up alcohol, I used to smoke and not only cigarettes -don't look at me like that, you also did!- and I can't stand any culture at all, the French one being the least favourite of the list."

"Arthur, I can't see-"

"Yet, you've always accepted me for what I am. Or, at least, that's what you've always said." Silence fell between the two like an iron curtain, which let Arthur explore Francis' expression with inquisitive eyes, noticing his utter confusion at his speech. His heart truly smiled, when Francis muttered a "Because that's true...", trying to look away from those staring globes full of hope and expectancy.

"Then, Francis, if that was true, answer me." He felt the Englishman's cold hands take his own, as he came closer with the same sincere earnestness in his eyes. Only now he heard the sound of his own heart racing faster and faster against his ribcage, while a wide-spread warmth travelled along his body. Yet, he soon realized his heart wasn't the only one beating fast. _Arthur... _"Francis, could I ever make you happy?"

"YES!" He shouted, scaring Arthur that jumped back a little, surprised at the reaction. "Sorry..." He said immediately afterwards, circling the other with his hands not to let him run away. Still, Arthur's smile foresaw that he had no intention to run.

"Really?" Was his incredulous reply. Francis nodded eagerly. "Yes, Arthur. I've never judged you and I'm not going to start now. I-I just want you to be happy. And..."

Arthur nodded encouragingly in straightening up his back, munching his lips like crisps.

"Arthur, I want you to be happy... with me."

* * *

-End Ch.16

**NB**: I'm answering all of you personally, so please, don't lose hope. Consider yourself as special, because that's the way I see you. That's also why I take so long to reply: everyone of you needs an answer composed only for himself. Not only would it be too easy and less satisfactory to send an already-made text every time, but also disrespectful, as you took your time to read and comment and as an Author I appreciate that a lot. So, here you are my humble Thank you and a wish: May you be happy and find the strength to tackle every difficulty. Sincerely Yours,

-Zanteh


	17. Life's as short as butterflies' piss

**Life is as short as Butterflies' piss**

Vash kicked the door open with his leather boot, inspecting the area with inquisitive eyes. If Ludwig wanted Arthur back in a minute, he would have him back in 30 seconds. With a coffee. Ah, coffee! Vash concentrated on the closed stalls in front of him, trying to perceive any pissing, chatting or smacking sound, when a murmur coming from the 3rd stall attracted his attention. There he was!

Behind the door, Arthur was covering Francis' pursed lips with his hand, glaring at him for wetting his palm with his _-oh, so sweet!- _saliva. Pushing him insistently, he urged him to step on the ceramic bowl and keep quiet and still. Yet, as soon as Francis lifted his foot, the loud frightening noise of Vash' angry boot-steps made him jump so high, that he lost balance and his shoe entered the basin.

Arthur cursed under his breath, not even slightly amused by his many efforts to take the foot out of the watery hole. "It's stuck!" Whispered Francis both alarmed and scared, and when he eventually managed to move it a little, there Vash' shadow appeared. Backing away from the door, Arthur bumped Francis, who smashed his beautiful face against the white tiles of the wall behind them. Before his hands succeeded in supporting the whole of his body, Arthur grabbed his free leg lifting it so Vash wouldn't see a third shoe on peeking under the door. Yes, Vash _would_ do that.

From that position, Francis could contemplate the finest edge made by a wall and a block of yellow painted wood, before realizing that the water had completely soaked his jeans up to his knee. M_erde._

"Arthur, I smell you in there! Come out with your hands up or I'll shoot so many times that this door will match a form of Gruyère!"

"Shut the fuck up, Vash! You'd be better off breeding cows in Switzerland, you failed form of a shepard!" Arthur shouted in placing Francis' leg down, before dashing out the stall so fast, that Vash failed in looking in.

"Why did you close the door?" Vash asked suspiciously, noticing Arthur's firm grip on the handle.

"Err..." Taken by surprise, Arthur couldn't form a sarcastic answer then and there, so he just went for something random. "Well, yesterday we ordered chili and don't take it personally, but entering now would turn you into an albino. Not that you wouldn't look great in white, but-"

Raising his eyebrows in a mixture or disgust and surprise, Vash moved some steps away from the stall and approached the exit door quickly. "Lud's waiting for you in his office. Oh, and bring that Frenchie, too, he's got news for him! So..._Tschüs_!" He greeted in rushing out of the restroom, glad he wouldn't need a bathroom till Lily and he got home.

_Brilliant. I am bloody brilliant_. _A bloody brilliant tool!_ Yet, Vash was out of the way now, which was incredibly delightful. That brought Arthur to his previous conclusion: he was impressively bright. Ready to share his new proven theory with Francis, he found him limping out of the stall in a pair of half-doused jeans.

"Take that smile from off your face." _Pfft, what was that? A threat? _Arthur's smile soon transformed into a jiggle. "Arthur. Do not dare!" _Oh, very intimidating!_ Arthur's giggle then became a snicker. "Fuck, Arthur! I've got a problem here!" Now the snicker turned in a whole-hearted laugh.

"Have you? Ahahahah! I didn't notice!" Arthur had to lean on the sink not to fall on the floor laughing. That pouting face, half-offended and half-amused, which only the most childish part of Francis could wear was now glaring at him with enthralled eyes. With a wide smirk, Arthur teased in approaching him. "I hope you're not wearing pink panties today, Fran! They might think you have some weird tendencies..."

"Shut up, _rosbif._Even your exposed ankles would scream 'Look at him, he's gay!'"

Arthur punched his chest fiercely, before pushing him back into the stall. "At least I don't sway my arse as if I was on a cat-walk. Take them off." He ordered in indicating his wet jeans.

"I don't sway my ass! I just move in a way that makes it more noticeable." He replied in shifting his hands down to his belt, when he took a glimpse of Arthur's eyes, hungrily exploring that particular part of his body. "Hey, Art..." Arthur blinked and raised his pupils, nervous but attentive. Francis smirked, glancing at his hands. "Would you mind helping me?"

Arthur lifted his eyebrows in surprise, feeling suddenly robbed of his breath. He coughed lowering his gaze, before replying. "Well... If you're slouch like that..."

Raising his arms in a surrendering manner, Francis thrusted his body slightly forward to his knelt lover's hand. _Lover... Ah, are these angels singing? _His eyes followed his ministrations with a hint of childish curiosity mixed with care and, only partially, desire. Arthur was somewhat goofy in his movements, as he was embarrassed to touch him so intimately. His fingers shook nervously in unfastening his belt, not to mention that his efforts to water his dry mouth could be heard from the exit door.

As soon as his pads touched under Francis' tee-shirt, he tingled all over from the coldness, embarrassing Arthur even more with his short gasp. Tenser than before, he didn't manage to unbutton his jeans at once, but he had to try several times, pulling on the fabric while insulting those demmed tight-fitting jeans.

Perfectly knowing that Francis was enjoying the view, Arthur pulled at the elastic of his pants, remarking with a sarcastic tone. "You really had to wear this pair, didn't you?" Francis smiled widely. Arthur liked fancy underwear, just to say that giving him blue pants with a giant yellow star on the front would be a great Christmas present. Yet, his favourite undergarments consisted in all-black pants with a single white skull between two crossed bones on the frontal middle section. Those which Francis' had given him with a copy of "Treasure Island", a pat on his shoulder and a comment on his love for piracy.

"Of course I had. They fit me perfectly!"

Wearing a savvy look on his face, Arthur let go of the elastic band. "You're so gay it's not even funny."

"Excuse-moi, who's knelt down in front of me?"

Arthur glared at his smug grin, before replying. "Only a pervert like you could find this enjoyable."

"Then, I wonder what would excite a kinky bastard like you."

"I'm not kinky!"

"But you're a bastard."

"Belt up, Frog." Arthur concluded in unzipping his jeans, swearing even more at their tightness, now that they followed every curve of what there was thereunder with an extreme precision. Swallowed the rest of his non-existent dignity, he pulled them down and forced Francis to step out of the way.

"Stay in." He warned in rushing outside to walk up to the hand-drier. After placing his hand under the sensors, he lifted the cotton clothes to be under the hot-air jet, waiting.

Thoughts crept into his mind, one after the other. Thoughts of him and Francis, thoughts of what he was doing, thoughts of what they did. The prickling sensation of his lips eating his own was still there, itchier and sourer than before. The smell of his skin still pervaded his nose obscuring his senses, along with the warmth of his cheeks pressed against his neck, the warmth of his hands, wrapping around him like poisonous snakes. His breath mixed with his own, his hands dancing on his own, his body craving to be taken. He sighed, glancing at Francis, peeking from behind the door. So many doubts, so many questions, so many things to do, to say, to live. Together.

Perfectly knowing he wasn't ignored, Francis spied Arthur. He was only a few steps away, and still he seemed so distant. What was he to do now? He had followed his heart till there and now, now that he could still feel it beating in his chest, he was doubting he could keep on. Battled between loving Arthur purely, waiting for him to be ready for something more than hidden kisses, and backing off, denying having done anything at all, he retreated, sitting on the toilet, waiting. So many doubts, so many questions, so many things to do, to say, to live. Together?

Without glancing at him, Arthur offered him his crumpled, still-quite-humid jeans, before setting of to Ludwig's office. "Move." He said humourlessly in exiting the restroom. Arthur strided up the corridor munching his lips, ignoring the whispers all around him. Francis soon stumbled out the restroom, coggling behind him.

"Arthur!"

Still, Arthur ignored him, marching on to the office. When he reached the door, he turned down the handle and swiftly entered, closing it in Francis' face.

"Arthur, are you okay? You've surely taken your time!" Ludwig wasn't the best spy of all, but he could hide his feelings very well. He perfectly knew that something had happened in the 3rd stall, the only one whose interiors could not be seen by the cameras placed everywhere in the building. That Frenchie was doing something to Arthur and his swollen lips were a proof.

"I'm fine, thank you. Now, didn't you want to see me?"

The annoyance in Arthur's tone made Ludwig even more suspicious. "Actually, I asked for Mr. Bonnefoy to take part in our conversation as well." Then, Mr. Bonnefoy entered the door.

_"Bonjour à tout le __monde__! __Qui me désirait__?" _He replied with a fictitious jolly voice. He just couldn't put Arthur's reputation more in danger than it was already and pretending to be fine would save theirs both for the time being. Maybe.

"No-one. Now, would you shut up and listen, stupid muddy slimy frog?" Arthur replied hastily, but still, he left a light smile colour his features. _He was lying, the bastard!_

"What, already taken your sulphuric acid with tea?"

The couple hadn't started making trouble yet, that Ludwig intervened. "You two, stop it! Now, would you please take a seat?"

Both of them shifted to the red ladder-back chair in front of Ludwig's desk. Waiting for Ludwig to start his speech, Francis looked around the new environment. It was so bright and clean that his mother's eyes would bleed. The furniture was rather modern, but it had been paired with so many antiquities -_Is that a Celtic cross?- _that the whole mixture showed itself to be quite odd. Francis examined the lights, which bathed and inflamed everything in the office, leaving only some half-shadows here and there under the shelves. The colours strucked him immensely: it was all so white and pure, that even the black and metallic frames appeared lucid and liquid. He turned his attention back to Ludwig, innerly thinking that _a guy attaching so much importance to order must have some serious problem._

Arthur, on the contrary, seemed quite at ease in the strange room. His snowy skin enjoyed being part of that so congenial environment, but what annoyed Francis the most, was the great care Ludwig reserved to Arthur.

"Now that we're all here reunited, I inform that we have wonderful news for you, Mr. Bonnefoy." _What do you mean, murdering Nazi? _thought Francis, glaring back at him. "Since your journey was cancelled, we managed to book a flight back to Paris just for you. Aren't you impressed by the efficiency of the British police?"

Francis looked at him blankly. _A flight? That means... Arthur! _Meeting the same bewildered look in Arthur's eyes, they both spurted out. "When? What time?"

Ludwig could well-understand Francis' terrified reaction, still he couldn't decode Arthur's terror. _Wasn't he happy to get rid of him? _"Your flight's leaving at 9.00 PM, so... I guess you'll better get going. You have to be there at least 2 hours before it takes off."

"Two... Hours?" Francis shook his head. He didn't want to go, not now. What would he do alone without Arthur? The idea of coming back into that cold flat didn't sound enjoyable at all.

"And here you have the tickets." Arthur grabbed the two pieces of paper confirming the booking and glared at them with such strength, that he hoped to see them burning.

Sighing, he stood up and thanked. "Thank you for your kindness, Ludwig. We do appreciate that." _Never minding your own business, you plunker!_ "We do hope we'll be able to repay you soon."_ I'd kill you in your sleep_. "Now, it's better for Francis and I to hurry up." _And away from your filthy breath. _"Fran, stand up. let's get going." _Or I swear I'll make him choke on his golden medals._

Francis stood up hurriedly and rushed to Arthur's side, leaving the office in a moment. The air in there was smothering him and his could feel his blood boiling at a too high temperature. God, how much he wished to join in Ludwig's funeral. He would gladly bring violets to his grave.

"Hey... It's not too late." Arthur spoke softly in Francis' direction. "And Ludwig has practically given me the day off. So... Wanna spend some time with me?" He asked timidly, a little frightened by the possible answer.

Francis smiled, nodding. "I'd love to." He stretched his arm to reach for his hand, but then, realising that they were still in the middle of the corridor, he preferred moving it to pat his shoulder. "Take me anywhere you like."

Arthur smiled back with glittering eyes. "If I could, you would never leave my place."

* * *

"What do you think?" Asked Ludwig, peeking from behind the mirror-glass window.

"I don't know." Replied Lily, who had been hiding under the desk all the time. "I don't fancy that Francis particularly, but I can't bring myself to consider him a threat either. I mean, Ludwig, look at him. Doesn't he remind you of one of those little butterflies that keep on flying from flower to flower, looking for a lover, searching for a place where to depose their eggs and doing this all with admirable passion and care, even though they perfectly know their life lasts only 3 weeks?" Ludwig stared at her with empty eyes. "I mean, don't you think they're stupid, those damned butterflies? I think that Frenchie is just as stupid as them. He's always had all he could wish for, and still he's always chosen Arthur over everything. Francis, if you ever noticed, is happy only when Arthur's around. And Arthur's the same. If their lives have a meaning only when they're together, why would we like to separate them?"

"You can't make this sort of speech about two guys."

"Why can't I?" Remarked Lily, slightly offended.

"Don't take me wrong, I'm not against this kind of, you know, same-sex relationships. It's just that- C'me on, Lily, Arthur's not that type of man!"

"I wasn't implying anything sexual, Ludwig. What I'm trying to say is that, when I look at them, I see two happy individuals. That's why I can't see your point."

Ludwig furrowed his eyesbrows seriously before speakin again. "Arthur suffers for him. You perfectly know that."

"Have you ever wondered if Francis suffers for him, too?" Ludwig looked with the same stern expression. "I know him very little, but I can tell he is no strong man. He's too sensitive to be a cynic, if you prefer saying it this way. And Arthur... That poor, poor Arthur..."

"I'm worried for him."

"Only you are." Lily sighed in walking to the door. "That's the problem, Ludwig. Only you still worry for him."

* * *

End Ch.17

To all of you: **HAPPY EASTER**! Get fat and boost up your glycemia levels for the docs' joy! ^^


	18. Good Luck to Strangers

**Tesco: **Supermarket in the UK. More or less like WallMart...

**Artists: **Skin – Purple; Arctic Monkeys: Snow Patrol – Chasing Cars; The Beatles- Hey Jude; U2 – Sometimes you can't make it on your own.

* * *

**Good Luck to Strangers**

_I want to be happy._

_I want to be happy._

_I want to... _

Lily dashed outside the office as soon as Arthur and Francis walked past the door. _They must've left their jackets there_, she thought in stepping down the stairs, tapping her feet loudly as if she had been dancing with crystal shoes.

Calling a colleague of hers from the stairs, she had the lift going up to the sixth floor. Sure this would slow them down, she rushed down the stairs to get to her desk. There, she printed an extra-copy of the document confirming the tickets were valid, signed it with a flow of her pen and waited anxiously for the two of them to arrive.

Soon after the two of them exited the sliding metal doors, Arthur wearing his usually "annoyed by everything that speaks"-look and Francis showing an unusual shade of sombre ocean-blue in his eyes.

"Arthur!" Lily cried in approaching the two of them, waving the sheets in the air. "You forgot to take these!"

Kindly smiling at her, Arthur glared at the sheets. "Thank you, Lily. You really shouldn't have."

Lily's face lit up at the moment, while her thin young body graciously danced away before their eyes. "Have a nice flight." she spoke softly before disappearing into the lift. _Little bastard._

Not even bothering to skim through those copies, Arthur handed them to Francis, who mechanically folded them until only a blank space was to be seen. _White has never been purer_, he thought on walking past Arthur outside the building.

The sky had turned grey and cloudy again, threatening to cry on every misfortuned head finding himself outside in the rain. Arthur sighed, biting his lips. The anger he had been feeling all along had been replaced by a deep sense of guilt and now he was desperately looking for the right words to say, coming up with none. Francis wished to tell him something, anything, but seeing him so lost in his thoughts deeply discouraged him. Silently, they reached the car under a thousand of peeking eyes.

When they eventually sat down on the front-seats, Arthur let his mask drop dramatically. "Francis, I-I'm sorry for what happened." His jade eyes were shaking with his voice, always too uncertain, always too doubtful.

Behind his shaded eyes, Francis looked quite puzzled. Sighing, he reached out to delicately touch Arthur's cheek. "Arthur, will you ever stop apologizing? I do not care for what Ludwig said. I love you, that's the only thing that matters."

Arthur swallowed, smiling. "You love me?" There was something foreign and magical in those words. They attracted him immensely and yet, they sounded so strange and nonsensical. But Francis smiled sweetly and there was light glistening in his eyes. How could he not believe what he said?

"I love you, Arthur. I love the way you speak, you move, you smile. I love the sound of your laugh, the challenging smirk you always wear, the glimmering of your emerald eyes. I love your hair, your skin, your... lips..." Francis licked his lips, breathing slowly. He lowered down his eyes to glance at his hands caressing Arthur's, slightly scraping their skin. Staring into his eyes, he whispered on. "I want to spend my nights kissing your mouth over and over and then going down, sucking and nibbling your neck until it's all red and purplish and then go down again, exploring your chest with my wet lips. I'll leave humid marks all along your torso and when I'll get to your navel, I'll draw circles round it with my tongue before shifting down again, where..."

"Stop it!" Arthur shouted in retiring his hands. "Stop it..." He repeated panting, covering his flushed face with his hands. Staring into those deep-blue eyes, hearing his seductive honey voice,... And his hands holding his own in a grip as if... as if they were there, in his bed, without clothes, without worries. Together, ready for love.

Arthur swallowed, concentrated on steadying his breathing. He coughed, inserted the keys and turned on the engine. "Are you alright with going to Tesco for some shopping? Yao asked to buy him some water and the shops close at 5.00."

Francis smiled at his slightly quivering voice, before sitting composedly on his seat. "You and me doing shopping? I can already see us quarrelling over the brand of milk to buy!" Still, after a second he clapped his hands together, adding enthusiastically. "Like a long-time married couple!"

"Belt up!" Arthur's face hadn't had the time to regain his natural ceramic pinkness, that it turned even redder than before. "I never said I'm going to marry you." He replied without looking at his smiling face, steering the wheel to exit the parking. "We're not even engaged!"

"But you would like to be, wouldn't you?" Francis commented teasingly in moving his right hand to rest on Arthur's thigh.

Glaring both at him and at his hand without actually doing nothing to remove it, Arthur sneered more for the embarrassment at his bluntness than at the comment itself. "Wanker."

Smiling victoriously, Francis let his fingers slowly massage Arthur's skin. "I know I would."

"You would what?" Arthur asked without thinking, interested more in keeping up the conversation than in saying something even more compromising.

"Like to be with you. Dunno, do the shopping, have dinner together, quarrel over who's going to wash the dishes... This kind of things." Francis smiled in shifting his arm behind his head, imagining how fun it'd be to cook for a grumbling Arthur.

Glaring at the hand sliding down his tight, Arthur let his fantasy flow to the point he could see them early in the morning arguing over the only croissant left. _Either Francis kisses me and have it or I grab it and stuff my mouth with it. Ah-ah. Yes, only the crumbles will be left behind! _"And since you're worse than a woman, someday I'll have to buy you a ring or whatever."

Francis' head turned, so his eyes could swallow his figure completely. "You'll buy what?"

"A ring." Arthur glanced at him, smirking. "I'd rather buy you a lash, but it'd be too showy."

Not losing sight, Francis seriously pondered the proposal. "I never considered the idea of being offered jewellery. Not by you, anyway."

"Why, I'm not a mean person, if that's what you're trying to say." Arthur replied, smiling at Francis brightened-up face.

"That's not the point. It's just... Well, ain't I the one supposed to buy you a ring?" A cold silence fell within the car, with Francis unable to speak some more and Arthur looking annoyed.

"What do you mean by that?"

Francis turned his head to the front, searching the sky for the right words. Still, no cloud answered him. He sighed. "Nevermind."

Arthur frowned. He was about to say something along the 'No, we're discussing this no matter what'-line, when he spotted a supermarket on the left side of the street. "Here we are."

He parked, turned off the engine, exited the car. In his heart, he missed Francis' contact on his skin. Fortunately, as if he had read his mind, the other's fingers stroked the palm of his hand asking for warmth. _Ludwig's at work, so are Lily and Vash, Yao's at home... _Clutching his hand despite the awkwardness, Arthur felt a strange mixed-up feeling of victory and satisfaction running through his chest.

"We're not done with that discussion." He warned in approaching the line of trolleys.

Francis sighed, helping him with his free hand. "Can't we just move on and forget about it?"

"Fine. But only because I would be right anyway." Arthur stated proudly in pushing the trolley inside the supermarket.

Pushing as well from behind the moving cage, Francis frowned in being welcomed by the flashing colours inside that heated-up place. "You're kidding, aren't you? Of course_ I _would've been undoubtedly right, had we ever continued discussing!"

"Nonsense! You should've learnt years ago that I am never wrong! By the way, Yao asked for still water. Can you see it somewhere?"

"You're such a child sometimes." Francis muttered, before stretching up his neck to have a better view of the place, when he noticed a shop assistant moving some plastic bottles from a shelf to another. "Over there."

"Where, where there's that girl?"

"Hu-hu. She might be working here, maybe she can help us."

Nodding, Arthur turned the trolley to the right and pushed it forward to the young woman with an uniform. "Mh, right. And I'm not a child."

"Yes, you are."

"Says the one who seeks comfort in pillows." Arthur replied harshly. He soon regretted what he'd said, seeing the hurt look on Francis' face. "Hey.. Sorry. I didn't mean.."

"That's fine." On his face a small reassuring smile appeared. Arthur was right, after all. Using a pillow to protect yourself is quite vile. "You're right. But only this time."

With a smile blooming on his face, Arthur called the young woman working. "Excuse us, Miss. Where can we find some bottles of still water?"

Straightening up, the shop assistant had the chance to notice their entangled fingers, blink, think something sexist, glare at them as they were abnormal monsters and cough, pointing to the side. "See those blue bottles over there? That's where you can find some."

"Thank you very much." Answering with fake kindness, Arthur hurried to the end of the shelf, dragging Francis along with him. _Bitch_.

"Forget her." Francis said in reaching out for a plastic package of six bottles. "She's not worth your anger. She'll soon grow up, find a speaking monkey, get pregnant, marry him, have kids, end up frustrated and in this all, she'll just go on listing and trying to find a random empty place for plastic bottles."

Arthur smiled, peeking back at the meaningless young woman. "I hope she gets cancer."

Francis placed the bottles in the trolley, smiling as the liquid inside of them moved as a sea during a storm. "It's not nice to wish good luck to strangers, Arthur."

Turning to face Francis, Arthur harshly replied. "It's even worse to wish unhappiness to lovers."

Without answering, Francis regained his place to his side. "Do you need anything else? Since your fridge seemed somewhat full..."

"No, actually not. Let's pay for this stuff and get going, shall we?"

Listening to the repetitive background music, they talked briefly about what they usually had for breakfast, queued, paid, exited. Arthur made a couple of comments on the look of the people waiting in line behind them and Francis replied with the same uncaring attitude.

"Are you sure you don't want some help?" Arthur said in walking to the car, glancing at Francis, who had offered to carry the bottles all by himself.

"Nah, I'm fine. Just open the car."

"As you wish. Still, as I was explaining to you before, I'd rather be ignored than hated for my choices." Arthur answered in pushing the opening button.

"I think that's a valid position, but only in certain situations. You can't accept to be always ignored, even if your ideas are opposed." In a moment Francis charged the car and walked to the front seat, where Arthur was waiting for him.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just me, but I don't like being at the centre of the attention." Arthur started the engine and drove to the exit. "When's your flight, by the way? I'm sure we're not late, but I can't recall the exact time."

"You're the centre of my attention, like it or not." Smiling at the comment, Arthur glanced at him unfolding the signed sheets. "We still have two hours and a half before it takes off."

"Perfect. The airport isn't too far from here..." _We might even save some time for us. _"Say, what are you planning to do once at home?"

By the time Francis' hand had already regained its place on his thigh, exactly where it was meant to be. Thinking for a few moments, in the end Francis decided there was only a thing he would surely do once in Paris. "I'll have a shower, cook something and call you. I'll probably text Belle, for she's been waiting for a call all day and not asking how she is would prove I'm a terrible Prince Charming. Still, what's sure is that at a certain point you'll see my name popping up on the screen of your mobile phone."

"What if I don't answer?"

"Pick up the phone or your answering machine will never be the same."

"Okay, okay. I'll do my best to get your call."_ I'll be waiting for it all night. I know I will. I'm just this stupid. _"What about some music?"

Nodding at the idea, Francis stretched out his hand to turn on the radio. "Let's hope there's something worth listening..."

"If not, there must be some CDs somewhere in this car."

Glancing at Arthur, Francis frowned. "Somewhere in this car?"

"Yes, somewhere in this car. Why, can't _my_ CDs be lost somewhere in _my _car?"

Deciding it was better not to ask, Francis reserved all his attention to the radio. After pressing a couple of buttons, a decent song finally came up.

_Purple washes over me  
Seeping through my open seams  
I'm stained all over_

You pretend we've started again  
Waiting for me to say when  
But I say 'Purple'

"_She won't go where I would go for you... _Oh, please, change. This song saddens me!" Arthur protested in turning his head to the side. No, he needed something different, something powerful. Something...

_All that I am  
All that I ever was  
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see_

"_If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world? __..._Ow, it's already finished."

"It's such a sad and peaceful song." Francis commented briefly on smiling at Arthur.

"You can say it out loud! Let's hear what's next... Nah, I don't wanna listen to this crap. Change, please. Let's find something that suits our taste."

"Ow, but I liked it!" Glaring coldly, Arthur made sure Francis stopped complaining. "Fine, as you wish. Hey, what about this one?"

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad.  
Take a sad song and make it better.  
Remember to let her into your heart,  
then you can start to make it better._

"Hell, yeah! I love this song! _Hey Jude, don't be afraid. You were made to go out and get-"_

"_Him." _Arthur got silent, listening to Francis sweetly serenading to him. " _The minute I let you under my skin, then you begin to make it better. And any time you feel the pain, hey Artie, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders."_

"The Beatles will come and get you." Arthur warned coldly in changing song again. It was already embarrassing enough to have him singing love-songs, did he also have to change the lyrics?

"I'm willing to come to England in Lennon's car any time. Still, that guy creeps me out..."

"He does, doesn't he? It must be his eyes. Or his terrible Liverpool accent! Or.. Hey, I know this song. What's it called? Mmmh..."

_Where are we now?  
I've got to let you know  
A house still doesn't make a home  
Don't leave me here alone... _

"_'Sometimes you can't make it on your own'_!"

"U2, right?"

"Yes. Since when you listen to them?"

"Your fault. It's all your fault for spoiling my taste in music."

"Spoiling? Darling, I believe it just got extremely refined!" They both smiled to each other unable to speak some more, turning to contemplate the grey streets disappearing behind them and waiting for the song to end. When Bono was still singing the last line, a plane flew above them. The airport was just a few minutes away and the thought wrenched Arthur's heart slowly and painfully.

* * *

-End Ch.18

**NB**: Comments are very appreciated (and all of them are answered)


	19. Never given Kisses

AirFrance costs less than British Airways. That's a matter of fact.

Français- English: _J'sais pas_ - Dunno

* * *

**Never-given Kisses**

The silence falling heavy like pouring rain and the liquid greyness of the asphalt and of the cement enveloping their bodies, watering their brains and reducing their insides to an achromatic mass of rotting meat were the good-bye London had saved for them. Or at least, that was what Arthur thought when a sharp screech came from the engine on parking, right before the radio stopped lamenting.

The air felt cold and humid, grey and sticky. It stained on Arthur's cheeks, tarnished his sight, taunted his lungs and robbed every colour of its brightness. The uneasy sensation of being deprived of oxygen caused him to inhale deeply and even more deeply when the same smothering feeling did not disappear. A cold flame was blazingly burning his insides, ceaselessly torturing him.

"Arthur..."

Francis' voice called him. It seemed so distant, lost in some unknown faraway land. Arthur swallowed, unable to turn his head. He bit his lip, sucked it, breathed laboriously. But Francis wasn't calling him for real. His name was nothing more than a bridge connecting reality and daydreaming. In the last two days, they had tasted Life, the purest form of it and Francis' mind kept on revolving round the idea everything was just too perfect to come to such an end.

He shook his head from side to side, slowly and uncaring. Only his waving hair retained the last brilliancy left, for his eyes were shadowed by a dark sombreness.

"Arthur... I don't want to go."

His liquid eyes stared at Arthur's trembling frame. He wanted to cry. Francis could see that. Taking his hand in his own, Francis pressed his lips on its smooth skin, kissing right above his wrist. Swirling his hand, he placed another gentle kiss on the base of his fingers, whilst moving to the center of his palm. Warm steam left his mouth as he breathed in his hand.

From the corner of his eyes, Arthur could spy every movement. There was a ticklish sensation coming from every spot touched by Francis' mouth and there was the warmth, his warmth, and the lovingly, desperate way he kissed every fingertip before blowing on his palm slowly, but fervently.

He tilted his head to the side like a curious child, encouraging the other to continue by delicately caressing his cheek. His stub felt itchy under his touch, but he did not care. The way Francis' lips were pressing on his wrist, sucking in every heartbeat was far more alluring.

Peeking from behind his half-lidded eyes, Francis ran the tip of his tongue along the lines of Arthur's hand, up till it reached the end of his finger. Biting it charmingly, he waited until Arthur was close enough to move nearer to his mouth.

He waited. Impatiently, he waited until they were breathing the same moisty air. He could feel Arthur's uncertainty in that same air. He could feel it on his quivering lips, when he gently touched them with his own.

They parted and met again, with Arthur 's hands clutching on Francis' clothes to keep him there, to keep him close, to draw his heat in. _Don't go. _His mind repeated as he opened his lips enough to suck on Francis', enough to go on loving, enough to keep silent.

Francis' body was strong but heavy now that he was sitting on his lap, scratching his chest with his fingers, asking to enter his heart. His mouth lowered to kiss his chin, followed the fine line of his jawbone and lavished attention on his neck, whilst his hand slided down to pull the lever of the front-seat.

Suddenly, Arthur felt himself falling down, and Francis with him, stopping only when his eyes could see nothing more than the inner top of his car and some bands of Francis' blonde hair. His lips were still there, sucking with torrid passion, and Arthur's mind couldn't but scream _Stop stop stop, not the neck, stop! _as he bit down on his lips to retain his gasps.

Pulling on the back of his head, he managed to get him to glide up to his mouth again, gladly smiling in every kiss. He let his heat enter his body, twirl into his mouth and skilfully swirl around his tongue. Francis knew how to kiss, he knew far too well where to touch, he knew that he wanted him to stay, to release the pressure building up in his body at every stroke, at every spin, at every twist of his tongue.

But that was not the right time.

Lifting up on his arm, Francis affectionately smiled, caressing the frail frame of his face with his fingertips. Arthur was panting, unmoving, staring at him with pleading eyes. _Don't go. _repeated the voice in his head. He was dizzy, confused, overwhelmed by the rapturous sensations soaking his brain and yet, in the background, a sad monotonous chant kept murmuring: _He has to go._

He swallowed, staring into his ocean-coloured eyes. He must've looked pathetic, with his hair all tousled, his clothes dishevelled and his skin unusually on fire. Trying to regain his composure, he averted his eyes in pulling a strand of his hair. Francis was still smiling, when a tear rolled down his cheek to wet the skin of Arthur's hand.

He immediately recoiled, slapping his face on trying to whip away that single watery trail. He didn't want Arthur to see him like that. He couldn't cry in front of him, he just couldn't. When he turned, Arthur had already lifted himself up on his elbows, looking at him with sorry eyes. He tended a hand towards him and drew him closer to his chest. They hugged, silently, filling the empty silence with the rhythmic beating of their hearts.

"It's time." One of them said, but with such unnatural voice, that they couldn't recognize it as their own.

Arthur nodded in unwrapping his arm from around Francis, lifting up. They didn't look in each other's eyes. A single glance and they wouldn't be able to make it.

Francis reached for the handle. It felt like cold stone under his touch and the world outside, that was even greyer. Closing his eyes, he pulled it. A clack, the door opening, the frost entering. He exited.

When he heard Arthur slamming the door closed, he eventually turned. He smiled faintly, he got a faint smile back. They wished the plane to be cancelled, but that was only a fantasy.

"So, we're going to meet on Saturday." Said Francis when they were already half-way through. Saturday meant two nights alone. Only two nights and then Arthur. He did not care for the days. Being at work, he would have something to occupy his hands with, but the nights, _those are hard to spend, when you're alone in the dark and no-one's there to wish you good-night_.

"Yeah." _I would've preferred to have you here till Saturday. _Arthur kicked a stone, trying to walk the closest he could next to Francis. Maybe he wasn't holding his hand, but he still wished to stay the nearest possible to him.

"I'm looking forward to it." He smiled, elbowing him slightly. His imagination was already working on a catastrophic scenario in case he would not show up. He would punch the wardrobe until his knuckles bled. That was a good idea. Painful, but good nonetheless.

"What time will you call me tonight?" There was still that beer with Ludwig in program. _And a punch to his face, if possible._

Francis thought over for a moment. "_J'sais pas_. Shall I text you before?"

"That would be nice, thanks." _That would be extremely nice. Have you the foggiest idea of how much time do I need to prepare psychologically? _

But Francis did not know and they were already in the building. They went to a British Airways information desk, had Francis' ticket changed, walked to a AirFrance information desk, bought Arthur's tickets, slowly made their way to the gates. They hugged.

Francis' humid wheeze stained the crook of Arthur's neck, while Arthur's cracked breathing moisted Francis' golden hair. They clasped, clinched, clinged to each other's body digging their nails into the fabric of their clothes. They wanted to scratch the skin underneath, to scrape it until they could feel the blood on their hands. They would laugh at that indelible mark, laugh and cut again, for there was a blade carving its way inside their chest, a wound they knew would hurt even more once Francis was gone.

A padded inhuman voice called. It was time to go.

"Arthur..."

But Arthur held him steadfastly, tightening the grip around his chest to the point he couldn't breathe any more. Francis' hand stroked his scalp reassuringly. _I love you._ He was not sure whether he heard that for real or not , but the warm pearls running down his cheeks, they were real, real as the knot he felt in his throat.

Another call. It was high time to go.

"Francis..."

By loosening his grip, Arthur could tilt his head to face him. _I love you. Say it, fool! Francis, I love you! _Yet, he did not speak. But for Francis, those sincere red puddles were enough. Enough, to hurt and scare him at the same time. He faintly smiled, cracked out a '_I'll call you' _and dashed to the gate. When he turned, he could see Arthur's hand closing in front of his lips begging for their last never-given kiss.

* * *

Arthur ran out of the airport. He didn't need to hurry, but the air in there was stifling. Seeing Francis leave had turned him into the pitiful corpse of himself. He needed to get back on his feet or he would go mad. And he could not go mad, not before 10 PM. Was it the time Francis planned to call him?

His mobile vibrated. A text.

_*Up for a beer?*_

Looking at his figure reflected in someone's car, Arthur saw no more than the ghost of himself. What was happening to him? Was this Love, sucking life out of every fiber of his being? Was this Love, causing him to weep for someone he was sure to meet in two days? Was this Love, blowing fog in his brain and confusion, uncertainty and dizziness at the same time?

"Is this even a question?"

He'd just opened his car, when his mobile sent yet a vibration through his arm. *_I'll pick you up at 8.00. BTW, Are you alright?*_

Arthur sighed in annoyance. What was he, his nanny? "Do I sound alright?" He texted back, before reaching for the handle. Only when he was about to pull it, he noticed the front-seat was still reclined. _Francis._

He grimaced, swallowing hard to keep the sorrow inside, well-caged under the mass of useless flesh and blood right under his lungs. There was his scent in that car, he knew. That persistent scent of man, smoke and vanilla that never left Francis' skin or... mouth. Arthur bit his lip, licking the moisty inside. It was still there, the taste of tobacco and mint of Francis' mouth. At every swirl of his tongue, his brain became filled with hormones and nicotine. He loved it. He wanted him. He wanted more. More. _More._

A new text. Ludwig was really getting on his nerves. Deciding to ignore it, he pulled the door open, took a deep breath and got in the car, reached for the lever, adjusted the frontseat and closed himself inside. _Time to go. _

He started the engine and hurried out of the parking, ready to hit the road. Music had already filled the air with some popular song, when curiosity poked his side. _What did that jerk reply?_

Perfectly knowing he wasn't supposed to use his mobile while driving but firmly decided to ignore every rule for the time being, he hid it below the steering wheel and pressed the "Read"-button.

*I love you. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me in the whole of my life-time. You're wonderful, Arthur, and it's still an understatement. I sincerely love you.*

Arthur had to slow down and stop to the side to finish reading. Holding the mobile in his hand, his eyes examined every word, analysing it fully, slicing it into pieces before placing it down again. Beaming, he kissed the display and replied. "Now I'm moved, bastard. I hate you so much that I wish that plane would never take off."

After having sent it, he opened the "Received texts"-folder and read Francis' message another time. And another. And another. And another again. He just couldn't get enough of that. Who cared if tears were streaming down his eyes? He was in love!

And Love hurt him in an odd, affectionate way.

* * *

-End Ch.19

Guys, in two weeks my exams will start, but I felt bad leaving you hanging for a whole month so... Here you have the 19th chapter! Hope you enjoyed it!

Wish me good luck! If any of you wished to leave a comment or a critique, please, do so. I appreciate reviews a lot and always reply, someday or another. ^^

To all of you whose PMing is disabled: Thank you for your comments. I wasn't able to contact you personally, but that does not mean I did not appreciate your words. Everyone else: Hell, I love you guys!

**IMPORTANT NOTICE:** The 100th reviewer will have a wish granted. Mmmh, sounds nice, doesn't it?


	20. A Timeless Evening

**A Timeless Evening**

Swinging back and forth on his seat, Francis waited for Arthur's reply with his mobile clutched in his hands. From time to time, he peeked behind to catch a shadow of the hostess' movements before glancing to the still-opaque signal hanging above his head. In a moment it would turn red, demanding to switch all mobiles off. _No mobile, no reply _repeated an odd fruity voice in the back of his brain_. No reply, no Arthur._ It added automatically.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board Flight 4B7 with service from London to Paris. We are currently third in line for take-off and are expected to be in the air in approximately seven minutes time." _Just seven minutes?_ Grasping even more tightly, he pleaded his mobile to burst into light. "We ask that you please fasten your seatbelts at this time and secure all baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartments." _Baggage? _Suddenly, the image of his shirt abandoned in Arthur's car flashed into his hesitation, he dialled Arthur's number. Perhaps, it wasn't so romantic to send two texts in a row, but he could wait for his reply no longer."We also ask that your seats and table trays are in the upright position for take-off. Please turn off all personal electronic devices, including laptops and cell phones." _Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait-SENT! _

"Sir, would you turn off your mobile, please?" Right next to him, a blue-dressed hostess had appeared from nowhere. Her tired voice tried its best to sound appealingly soft, but her drowsy face could not even hold a smile.

"Alright, _Madame_." He had just pressed the red button, when the same hostess leant on him, reaching for the iron buckles next to his sides. Enjoying the view of her breasts right in front of his eyes, Francis' body also noticed how those perfectly manicured hands moved roughly up his hips, closing the gap between the two extremities in a quick, nervous click.

"This'll go." Despite the fatigue, she indulged a moment before straightening up completely. It was easy to spot she was torturing the wet, inner part of her bottom lip. "E-Enjoy your flight." She stammered before stepping back, ready to disappear in the back of the plane, when a gentle caress stroked her palm. She turned and smiled with her eyes. "I'll bring you some water, Sir." Wiggling her hips to the front of the aeroplane, she let a nodding Francis admire the nice show of her round bottom, ignoring that once vanished behind the heavy red curtains, he would challengingly switch his mobile on again. Hostess or not, _Arthur might call._ And Arthur could wiggle his arse ten times more sexily than that bitch.

After the Captain's announcement, the plane eventually took off, a blonde hostess showed the emergency exits and Francis tested the efficiency of the bathroom. His hands had not dried yet, that they were already flying above his motherland.

"Here's your lemon, Sir." Twenty minutes hadn't slipped away since they left England and he had already asked for some ice-cubes and lemon slices to drop into his glass. His body actually craved for wine, but he did not fancy the idea of risking getting some water and bicarbonate. Not to say that the ink-haired hostess was trying her best to be seductive and did he really want to keep her lovable, he should stop making her run up and down the plane.

"Thank you, Cherie. Will you repeat me your name? I can't recall it right now..." He said alluringly, paying more attention to his ice-cubes than to the plastic label glued to her uniform.

"Thy, Sir. Thy Nguyễn."

"_Enchanté_, Miss Nguyễn."

Since no more was coming from the other's mouth, the almond-eyed girl tried to keep up the conversation with a question. "...May I ask who you are, Sir?"

Stealing a glance at her slinky frame, he elegantly rustled. "Some call me Francis Bonnefoy, but I am much more than a name." When the last ice-cube fell from the teaspoon, his eyes eventually quirked to the side to catch the colours of the impressed girl standing next to him. "Will you sit next to me, Thy? I may be wrong, but apparently, you are very little busy at the moment."

"With short flights like this, Sir, there is never much to do." All happy and cheerful, she gently replied in quickly occupying the empty seat next to him. Not even eyeing her, Francis elegantly took a sip from his plastic glass with the same grace of an expert sommelier tasting refined Champagne from a brilliant flute. Fumbling with the hem of her azure dress, she blurted out. "So, you are going back home... to your family, huh?"

The lemon added a stingy flavour to water, something unique in his simpleness. Francis savoured it slowly and sloppily, before calmly showing a fake smile. "Unfortunately, I am not, Thy."

With eagerness glistening from her eyes, the long-haired hostess pried for more. "So, you are not married...Are you?"

Francis breathed in, licked the rim of his teeth and answered kindly, but mercilessly. "I am, _ma __douce_ Thy. I am."

"Oh..." Her disappointed eyes disappeared behind the darkness of her hair. Yet, Francis could still hear the munching sound of her teeth against the skin of her lips. He sighed, tending his hand to caress her hair.

"I'm sorry." He did not know what he should be sorry for. In the end, that was nothing more than a hostess, one among a thousand. Honestly, he had no reason to be sorry. They would walk out, call a cab, get home, have sex, part, forget. But not this time, for this time, for the first time, he had another choice. He would stand up, call Belle, get home, drink and phone Arthur - clean and simple. And he would be happy, truly happy. Still, the same idea of denying that young hostess a night with him sounded terrible. To him, it was like denying someone a crumb of love.

"You wear no ring."

"Pardon?" His hand stopped stroking, as if caressing her hair muffled the sound of her voice.

"You wear no ring." She coldly repeated in raising her head. "Either you're a very unfaithful husband or a very terrible liar."

Francis blinked, unable to understand well. _No ring_? He looked down at his bare hand just to see there was no sign of belonging there. Since its view hurt him too much, Arthur forced him to hide his wife's in a drawer in his bedroom, along with some other memories from her. And Arthur's...

_And since you're worse than a woman, someday I'll have to buy you a ring._

Arthur's. He gazed at his hand, thinking of what kind of ring Arthur would choose for him. _Nothing too fancy_, he thought, _but original at the same time._ _Probably a golden ring with a small emerald on top, just to remember me that_ "He always keeps an eye on me." _Or a red ruby, too small to be noticed, but proud to shine nonetheless. Or a dark opal, just because he's mysterious like that, him and his passion for magic. Sure is, he's cast a spell on me with his charm. Hey, nice one! I shall tell him so tonight.._

When he eventually raised his gaze, he realised the girl had already left. Quite relieved, he smiled, peeked from side to side and took out his phone. He needed someone to pick him up and his secretary insisted so much on wasting some gas over him. However, much to his chagrin, up there in the sky there was no signal at all.

Pity, because if there had been, he would've gotten on time Arthur's bewildered reply.

On getting home, Arthur deliberately ignored anyone but Francis, until he had to stop in front of Yao's house, a meeting he couldn't avoid. Waiting for Yao to open the door, he greeted some of his colleagues, even those he had never seen before.

When Yao's son opened the door, he hadn't the time to say a faint "Hello.", that the young boy was already standing in front of the back-door of his car with a cheeky flame in his orbs. He neither smiled nor spoke, that sly guy, leaving to his eyes the duty of talking.

Throwing the keys at the boy, Arthur watched him unlock the door and get the bottles. Why should he get his hands dirty, when that dark-haired boy so readily volunteered?He did not know, but he helped carrying a couple inside anyway. With his nostrils filled-up with the pungent, acrid scent of incense, he strolled out the house, waving at Yao and his strange son. He breathed in deeply, coughed, insulted the polluted London fog and stepped towards his house. Right before reaching for the handle, he felt a vibration coming from his pocket.

*Love, my shirt is rotting in your car.. Will you rescue it from utter decomposition? ^^"*

Arthur blinked, staring at the lit-up screen. He didn't even notice his arm falling back to his side in disbelief. _That jerk's just called me... 'love'?_

Paris, finally! Francis dashed out the airport, glancing nervously at his mobile. _When are you going to catch some signal? _He mentally demanded, when a submitted vibration advised him that Orange was ready to suck his money. On heading to the parking, he dialled Belle's phone number.

"Allo?"

"Hi, baby. Will you close the shop and get your ass at Charles-de-Gaulle before I fire you?"

"Sorry, bitch, but I'm too splendid to be fired. Say,I'll be there in... 10 minutes. Don't get AIDS in the meanwhile!"

"As you wish! I'm waiting for you at the parking, 1st floor. Don't make me wait!" Francis kept on walking till he found a nice spot where to sit. In no time he started skimming through the texts that kept on cramming into his phone.

After deleting a couple from Orange, the name **Arthur **eventually came up. _I should change label, _he thought, since anyone might read what the two of them were to send each other.

*Since when you call me "love"?*

Exactly _this_ kind of texts.

"Can't I?" Was his ready reply, but right before pressing the green button, a well-known male voice in his head warned. _Can is for abilities. Since you've already written it, you 'can'. Said this, what's the right verb, Frog? _ "Mayn't I?" After re-writing the message, he read it twice, doubting the existence of that verb itself, but sent the text anyway. _English. Love it or hate it._

Shortly afterwards entering his house, Arthur slouched on the couch to select all the texts he'd been ignoring so far. In an hour Ludwig would come and pick him up, so he was better off having some dinner. Getting wasted on an empty stomach wasn't really the smartest idea.

Tip-fingering on the keyboard with his soft pads, he answered quickly to all senders, but one. After some pondering on Francis' text, he came up with the perfect reply. "There is a certain measure of likelihood, but only if you behave yourself."

Francis got up as soon as Belle's blue Citroen curved into the parking.

"How much for a night?" She mocked from behind the lowered windowsill.

"Always too much!" He replied gaining the seat next to her. Once fastened his belt, he took his time to scan her appearance critically. A crimson ribbon decorated her golden hair, cut shoulder-long no more than a week before. A pair of ladybug earrings matched the red dress she had chosen for the day. A dash of pink blush above a mahogany-coloured swirl of pencil, some cherry lipgloss to make her full lips glisten, a golden collier. Nothing too showy, just a gold string with a white-gold crux. If only her white-paint sandals had a shiny brass buckle... It didn't really matter, since her diamonded watch paired up with it quite well. Still, Francis would've preferred another pair of shoes to fit those fairy feet. "I love your dress, but those sandals are terrible."

"I hate your shirt, but I'm sure it's not yours." Peeking to the side, Belle checked Francis' reaction. Pretending to ignore her, he turned shyly to stare out of the window, faigning an interest in the evening sight of Paris. _Right assumption, bitch._ "If that's not yours, why are you wearing it?"

Francis swallowed. Of course Belle would notice that! Since they knew each other, they'd been commenting on the respective taste in clothes to the point now they could name colour and brand of every single piece of fabric in the other's wardrobe. It was their way to scan each other's mood - having been so since the very first day. Looking back to her, he simply stated. "I've just borrowed it for a while. Why, never lent a shirt, Miss Fashion-cries-my-name?"

"Of course. But now I wonder where your old shirt is." She did not even have to glance to the side to know Francis was reddening with nervousness. It was too easy with him, easy as it had never been. For her, this only meant that eventually, the Serious Girlfriend she was expecting him to get had come. Someone with a brain, not only a nice B-side. Someone with a heart behind those C-cup tits. Someone you could have a serious chat with, not the usual fashion-obsessed doll, good for nothing but wild sex. A Serious Girlfriend, the right one for him.

"I left it somewhere." _Worst reply ever. _

"Somewhere." Belle repeated, hiding her curiosity under a thick strate of inquisitiveness. She could clearly see that Francis' mind was begging his hand to repetitively smack his face . Now, how couldn't she take advantage of that? "And where is this _somewhere_ exactly, Fran? At some chick's house?"

"No, in a car." _Francis, you officially lost the game._ Failing miserably at hiding the evidence, he just nervously munched on his lip, fearing Belle's next question.

"A car." Screeching, the car stopped in front of Francis' block of flats. "Not exactly the best place for a first time." Belle commented, raising her brows complicily in peeking at Francis' flushed face. No matter how hard he tried, she had cornered him already, and the sharp sensation of being right was already making her dizzy.

Rocking his head from side to side, he could feel the nervousness building up in his chest. "No no no! We didn't- I mean, I just forgot it there!"

"_We_, Francis? You and-?" Freed from the belt, Belle could now stare at his crimpled red face, exploring every shade of those quivering blue eyes.

"L-Let's see tomorrow, okay? Bye!" Dashing out the car, Francis ran into the hallway, stepped up the small stairs and stopped only in front of the elevator. Leaning on the wall for support, he couldn't but jump in surprise when Belle's finger pressed the 'up'-button for him.

Waving at him with a smirk on her face, she entered the metallic cage and the button '3' for the both of them. Tenser than before, Francis now could not even bring himself to look into her eyes. "What's wrong, Francelot? King Arthur found out you're in love?"

Francis' teeth dug into his lip. "What if he did?" Arthur would kill him, he was sure of that, but he couldn't keep a secret with Belle. Her tenaciousness would get him to confess anyway, so, why not telling her? "Say, Yseult... What if King Arthur understood my feelings?"

Belle laughed. Despite Francis' seriousness, the lame background music ridiculed the overall effect. Belle laughed whole-heartedly, clasping his hand between her own and dragging him outside. "Falling for someone else's wife! Only you could be so stupid!"

"What?"

"You heard me!" She lifted the desert-coloured welcoming mat to get the key, unlocked the giant wood door and danced into the flat. "I know you're fond of the 'good housewife'-attitude some woman have, but messing with a married mommy- Because she's also a mother, isn't it? And maybe her son is already making some chick out there pregnant. Oh, Franchie-Fran, hardly anyone marries for love these days. Most of them get together because there's a baby in the way - If they get together at all..." She whispered to herself, catching a couple of glasses from the cupboard. "Will you get the wine, please? I bet you keep some in the fridge."

She didn't need to ask for some, since Francis was already grabbing a bottle from the coldest compartment, but she demanded nonetheless. Better to speak nonsensically than let silence fall. Silence brings thoughts _and no-one wants to think these days_.

"Belle, I don't think you got it right.." He firmly pulled the cork from the bottle, tasted some drops of wine and returned to the living room. As it was getting quite dark, he stretched his arm out to reach for the switch and turned on the light. A faint smile had its way on his face when he noticed that Belle had already opened the windows.

"Don't kid me, I can see it right before my eyes! You, all dressed up for some fabulous party, climbing a stair of roses to get to your beloved - and falling miserably because there's no Romeo&Juliet in real life."

"Maybe the Channel isn't so difficult to overcome. I would douse my suit for sure, but I would either get to the other side or be saved by a random ferry. Be the Captain French, of course. Any Englishman would make me walk the aisle.. _Santé_." Having poured her some wine before sitting on the red velvet sofa, they now cheered briefly. A_rthur, how would you love to be my pirate._

"So, this Mrs Special is an islander?" Rolling the glass between her fingers, she was captured by the pale yellowish colour of those air bubbles rolling up the glass. Better to observe the waves of that golden sea than the fast tides in Francis' blue eyes, especially now that his possessive arm was resting behind her head.

"If you mean a _rosbif_, that's right." _Arthur will kill me. Arthur will kill me slowly and painfully. He will chop off my tongue, mince it, bake a meat-pie and feed me with it. I will die from POISONING!_

"And.. What's she like?" Spying from behind her bands, Belle could see Francis tensely clasping at the stem of his flute. In the glass, the wine rolled and quivered like the ocean during a storm, streaming into his mouth when he took another sip of the golden juice. He licked his lips wonderingly.

"Tall... Just like me. Blond, short-haired. With wicked, green eyes and creamy skin. No freckles, no specs, a hideous taste in clothing, amazing in music. Brilliant mind, terrible temper. Curious, artistic, enterprising, but sometimes too cynic, stubborn and suspicious. Drinks tea a lot."

"How can she drink that stuff?"

"I don't know. _Santé_." They cheered on a new glass and sipped its content calmly. Francis noticed how the artificial light created a cloudy-sky effect on the sponged peach walls of his living room and mentally approved of the choice.

"Sounds like you've know each other for a while." Said Belle in leaning her head on his shoulder. If they knew each other so well, that meant she failed in detecting the first signs of affection. How couldn't she see that he was falling for some gently-smiling uterus-provided being right before her eyes?

Feeling his mouth go dry, Francis had to sip some more winedrops on caressing her hair. After getting rid of her ribbon, he started smoothing down her hair with long strokes, touching her neck lightly with his knuckles. "We have..."

Belle let his hands travel down her shoulder, enjoying the warm feeling they left on his arms. She noted the absence of cologne on his body, substituted by a more innocent scent of cheap soap and coffee. Moving her nose closer to his neck, she could smell a fading savour of lemon and... tea? "You kissed her."

Francis stopped stroking.

"You smell of tea." Certain of her conclusions, she drifted away swiftly to check his reactions. She smirked at his befuddled face and proceeded. "Only one person has this particular smell in his skin, and this is Arthur. But since you can't possibly have an affair with him, I suppose you have a tea-reeking lover. Right?" _Why that face?_

Francis didn't seem impressed. Actually, his sorry eyes weren't hiding an uncertain worry when he failed to fake a smile. Arthur did smell of tea. His lips, his cheeks, his neck... Even his hands reeked of Earl Grey. No wonder he was now stinking of it, no wonder the shirt he was wearing had that stench on it, no wonder Belle could smell the absence of cologne on his skin. She had soon become like a sister for him, how could he believe she would be so easily fooled?

"Right...?" Belle repeated, trying to get what those vast blue orbs were begging her to keep secret. There was something wrong with his reaction. Why wasn't he beaming at her, telling how the met and all those good lovers do? Why was he just staring into her eyes, munching on his bleeding lip, uncaring for the blood colouring his teeth?

Slowly distancing herself from him, she sought for an answer in those pleading pools. Could it be that-? No, it could not, it just could not. Francis and- Alright, the description matched, but- She didn't even care for the wine spilling over her dress, when Francis' eyes lowered at her whispered "_Arthur?"_

A frosty silence fell. The breeze blowing into the room suddenly got colder, the peach-coloured walls darker and the plastic flowers on the ebony table seemed to whither and die as if were real.

Francis licked his lips, respired deeply and shot her an uncertain, demanding look. On raising her eyebrows nodding, Belle answered thereto by closing her jaw in a "...Wow."

"Indeed." Not caring for manners any longer, Francis grabbed the bottle from the round table and chugged down some wine. He needed alcohol, a bottle, a pool full of wine, he needed a wine-storm above his head. He swallowed and breathed out toxicity. "If you want to go, the door is open.." He said in lifting the icy bottom of the green glass to his front.

"Why would I want to go?" Belle approached him again, taking the wine away from him and drinking from the bottle herself. She shook her head, devouring some of that gold, and simpered to him. "You never cease to amaze me."

There was honesty into her eyes, mixed with sympathy and melted sweetness. Feeling relieved of a heavy burden, Francis couldn't but smile back to her. "You know me, I'm a walking late-night show."

"The only bitch with hairy legs in town."

"Don't mess with my sexy legs, they could be skinnier than yours! If they only wanted, alright, but they could!"

"I bet he doesn't mind." Belle savvily concluded. "Say, this stain is eating up my dress, have you got something to combat it mercilessly?"

"I hope so. Belle, why don't you just give it to me? I'll wash it and bring it to you tomorrow - or later. And it's not like I won't lend you a shirt... It won't fit you, but you're not hitting the streets tonight, right?"

"Sure I am. But thanks to you, tonight all Paris will have to jack off- And all because I'm not waiting under a lamppost! See, you're a damn for your people." With the help of Francis, Belle succeed in taking off her dress, revealing her pink lingerie. Francis was his big bro, but having him in love with a man meant an even more dramatic fall in the possible-raper chart. "And tell me more about your new conquest. I mean, Arthur's not really the type of man that reacts positively to a declaration - Even worse if the knelt-down guy is you. What happened, then?" She handed in her dress and followed him into the corridor leading to the bathroom, where her piece of clothing would be splashed with a cascade of water and Marseille soap.

"Well, remember when I called you? We had just - just kissed."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The worst kiss in the history of kisses. And the best at the same time."

"Why, did something go wrong?"

"Not something, _everything_! Arthur was furious with me, Ludwig almost kicked me out of Scotland Yard and we were almost caught by Vash. Not to say I was-"

"Wait wait wait. Who is Vash and caught in the middle of what?"

"Ehu, you know Ludwig, Arthur's boss? Right. Remember that I told you about a girl, Lily? Vash is her brother, as well as one of Arthur's colleagues."

"Okay... Okay, I got it."

"And we were in the bathroom... doing _things_."

"You made love in a bathroom? But, wait... Wasn't he mad at you?"

"No, he was no more! And that was just some mild kissing, stupid."

"Quite lunatic, your lover, to change attitude in an hour's time."

Francis wringed out the dress and threw it among his coloured garments. Before going to sleep, he would charge the washing machine and make her do the dirty job. "He's not lunatic. Not too much."

"As you say. And now?"

"Now... Now we'll see. I shall call him in a couple of hours or so-" He entered his bedroom, leaving Belle at the door. No-one ever stepped into Francis' bedroom, independently of who he was. That was the only unsaid, passively-accepted rule of his house, a rule no-one refused to follow.

Grabbing the shirt he offered her, she abruptly asked. "Can I stay for the night?"

Francis blinked. "Why?"

"If you send me home, we'll be both alone for the next two hours, whereas if you say _'Yes, Belle, I'd love to have you here for the night!', _we'll keep each other company. Sure, at midnight or so you'll call your lover and after that I shall make fun of you like no-one's ever made. And if that's not enough, let me say that we have to celebrate with something better than cigarettes..." Without hesitation, she showed a tightly-rolled joint ready to be smoked. "So?"

Francis sighed, not daring asking where she got that reefer from. "Is there any way to kick you out?"

"Of course not."

"I'll get the lighter."

"Pass me the lighter." Ordered Arthur, sat next to Ludwig in his pitch-black Mercedes. He would usually refuse a cigarette, but since the Frog decided to ignore him, he was ready to fill up his lungs with carbon monoxide. Did he die from cancer, Francis would have only himself to blame. He placed the filtered end gently in the centre of his mouth, far enough into his mouth to form an airtight seal but not far enough back where it will touch the wet part of his lips. Feeling it slipping, he drew them inwards slightly to hold it in place.

Ludwig stretched his arm out, holding up the lighter an inch away from the end of the tobacco stick. Bringing the flame almost to the tip of the cigarette, he waited until Arthur sucked on the cigarette in short bursts. "I'm not sure you should start with Lucky Strikes, Arthur..."

"Yet, I'm sure that's none of your business, Beilschmidt." Arthur breathed in the smoke, felt the air missing from his lungs, coughed loudly, cried and punched Ludwig. No-one was to giggle at him. "Fuck you an your bloody cigs." He mumbled in throwing the stick outside.

"Hey, you didn't even touch it!"

"Better off there than in your hands." Ludwig grumbled, Arthur smirked. "Ain't Vash coming tonight?"

"No. He said he preferred staying home yodelling than seeing 40-year-old brats arguing over a stinky pussy."

"Does he know one day he'll be also quarrelling over that same pussy?"

"Yeah, unless he sells his arse to the first scrawny fag there at the park!" Ludwig roared out a laugh. It was never nice to hear him cough off some amusement. On the contrary, it was absolutely terrifying.

"Yeah.." _Francis isn't scrawny.. He's fat_. So as to cover his grin, Arthur leaned on to reach for the radio. If there was something he had to avoid, was bringing up the issue. Yet, the idea of Francis' face at his comment was too amusing.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, nothing." _ I'm not fat! _Francis worriedly looking at himself in the mirror, checking if there was any sign of flabbiness on his thighs was just ridiculously funny.

"It doesn't seem like nothing to me. C'me on, what's that?"

"Really, that's nothing. Just a stupid joke about a sexy guy obsessed with appearance."

"Seems fitting with the Frenchie you brought in this afternoon... Anyway, we're here. Will you get in and order? I'll park somewhere over there and walk up to you."

"Alright, see ya in." Arthur unbuckled his belt, got off the car and slammed the door closed. He immediately rushed to the pub, as the chilly air was not something he enjoyed particularly.

From the outside, the Red Lion didn't seem so impressive, but thanks to two giant windows, any outsider could admire what he was missing. It was always particularly lively there at the pub. The atmosphere was more relaxed than it usually was in most places and chatting with the guy next to you at the bar didn't seem awkward at all. The good warmth, well-mixed with the dimmed lights, created a general feeling of cosiness. Some would even say, that the pub was like a second home for them, the mates there being their beloved family and the bartender the neighbour they always wished to have. Hardly anyone did not left if even a small tip of some pound for the Old Gerry.

The Old Gerry, or Germania, was the owner of the pub. Having made his money by selling beer in the good old Saxony, he was said to be the most specialized barman in the area of Great London. A legend was handed down by word of mouth from a drunkard to another, affirming that the golden colour of his long hair was a side effect of his beer-based diet. No-one knew if that was true, but no-one really wanted to try.

"Good evening, Germania." Arthur smiled softly on approaching the bar. Quirking his brows at him, Germania advised he was coming for him, just after finishing serving some other costumers. Waiting for his turn to come with 10 pounds in his hand, Arthur admired the professionalism of the staff, respecting the queue even though it was invisible.

"Welcome back, son. You seem quite distressed, will some Brown Ale do for you?" Germania never asked how one was. He knew his costumers needed a beer, knowing which one was part of his job.

"Seems perfect, thank you. And, Germania, got any advice for Herr Beilschmidt?" Germania glanced at him with a savvy glimmer in his icy eyes, whilst pouring him his pint of ale.

"Franziskaner Kristallklar. Because my German needs some."

"Mh, you sure? Wouldn't some stout be better?"

"Arthur my son, stout is too creamy for your mate. Believe me, some good Franziskaner will make him perfectly happy."

"Alright, fill his glass up to the brim. Might some also suit your taste?" Handing in the money, Arthur caught a thankful glisten in Germania's cold eyes. There was nothing better than a beer to repay him for his efforts.

"There's a table over there, son. Quite in the shadows, just as you like it."

"Thank you, Germania. When you die, Saint Peter will make you the landlord of Heaven." Walking up to a small round table on the shadowed corner of the pub, Arthur made sure there was a seat for both him and Ludwig, who soon entered the local himself. Spotting him from the distance, he quickly stepped up to him, already savouring his blonde ale.

"Sorry for being late, but they're all hitting the pubs this night and there was no parking, were you to kill someone for it."

"It's alright, I haven't tasted my ale, yet. And Gerry got you some Franziskaner. If you're not up for it, drink it anyway. I bet your liver doesn't care what brand your beer is." Eventually, when Arthur was ready to stick his lips to the cold glass of his Newcastle Brown Ale, his mobile sent a vibration all along his thigh. _Francis! _Pulling it out quickly, he immediately pressed 'read', damned his phone for being so slow and had the text in front of his eyes.

*Stop being so kissable and I won't try to come hither. (I deserve an applause just for the hither!)*

Involuntary, a smile blossomed on Arthur's face. It was nice being called pet-names, but having him complimenting every now and then wasn't irritable at all. Still, he couldn't let him win so easily. Where had he been for the last 2 hours? No-no, he needed to learn his lesson. Arthur put his mobile back in his pocket, decided not to type anything, not till he got home. It was still to see who was the one waiting between them.

"Got some good news?"

"Huh?" Arthur was already regretting his decision, but he could not just act like a teenage girl in love, not in front of Ludwig. Burying his face behind his pint of ale, he guzzled down its smooth, mellow flavour. With his insides soaked up in alcohol, he was ready to regret his choice some more. He needed to write to Francis, he needed it like he needed beer.

"Arthur, are you okay?" Asked Ludwig worriedly after quaffing down the last half-pint.

"Yeah, I'm alright. It's just... I've been having weird thoughts, lately. Nothing serious, and yet-"

"Reorganise your thoughts while I buy us a second round. And please, don't faint while I'm not here." Getting his wallet from the pocket, Ludwig stood up and walked off to the bar.

"Don't worry. And Lud, will you get me some Mackenson? I need something strong." Arthur saw him nodding and approaching the landlord, just the right distance not to notice him take out his mobile and text his lover. "You would try to bed me anyway, for you're perverted in the head. And I see English is finally getting to you."

*Not English, but a certain Englishman who wouldn't mind a night with _moi_.*

_Idiot. _Swigging his beer, Arthur let his buds savour the sweet, fruity liquid, tasting every bubble flowing down his throat. Ludwig was still queuing. Good, he could reply without being inquired. "Poor chap, for he must be either very miserable or very desperate. In both cases, he's not completely right in the head." _Because you ain't right in the head, are you, Artie? _Arthur briefly gazed at his forearm. Under the long sleeve of his blue sweater, there was a new couple of cuts. He hadn't been touching a blade for a while, but had Francis texted on time, he would have waited patiently for his replies without taking to pieces his razor. _But he didn't. He had to take his bloody sweet time, that jerk, and leave me alone in that bleeding cold house with all my stupid thoughts and all my stupid regrets and all my stupid fantasies about me and him and- Damn it!_

"Here's your stout, Arthur." Ludwig placed his schooner in front of him, ignoring his high-strung face for a moment just to put his wallet back in place.

"Thanks." Arthur immediately drank up his previous seidel and attacking the new, boozing half of it down, not caring for the alcohol sousing his brain. _Stupid Frog, stupid me, stupid addiction to this shit. _"I hate life." He stated in violently smashing his schooner to the table, fortunately not breaking it.

"Kill yourself." Ludwig simply replied on supping from his glass.

"Why, to give my body to worms? Thanks, I'd rather have them starving for another couple of months."

"Worm-killer, that's what you are. Any vegetarian would've already sued you for that, and he would be right."

"No-one's right, we just make 'em believe so."

"So, murdering is right?"

"Nah, that's just a way to eliminate some asshole from the face of Earth."

"What if he's innocent?"

"No-one's innocent. Listen up, now. Do you think that's fair one can't kill himself without breaking the law? I mean, if you want to quit life, you should be allowed to do it. But no, suicide is self-murder, and since murder is a crime, every suicide is a criminal. To me, those are just outcasts..." Arthur rolled the glass in his hand. The caramel-coloured beer shifted from side to side, glistening under the lights. A new text came, but it was better to ignore it for the time being.

"To me, those are no more that 50-pound fines. C'me on, Art, think of it: if everyone was allowed to quit, who would make us stay here? If I could say Goodbye to my life, don't you think I'd have already done that? And yet, I keep on struggling, suffering, getting mad at my dearest ones for stupid things - all because I'm too full of beer, smoke and myself. Be you brave or vile, you have to face life."

Arthur smirked, offering his glass for a toast. "To Life, the only whore that robs us all of our virginity.."

"..'cause she fucks all in the end. Cheers!"

"And that's the end." Concluded Francis, driving his eyes from his bare feet to the girl sitting next to him on the bed. In the blueish darkness of the guest-room, the indistinct shapes of her body got rounder under the whiteness of his baggy shirt. They preferred to have only the small lamp on the bedside table on, hiding in the shades among those sky-coloured walls like stinky, thrifty rats. A purplish cloud floated above them, threatening to cry acid rain on their heads.

Belle sluggishly added some smoke to it, tilting her head to the ceiling pensively. She drew in another puff, relished its taste and simpered idiotically. "You should denounce Miss Fortune for stalking."

Stroking the palm of her hand with cement attention, he upturned the corner of his mouth slightly. "I'd rather kick her in the stomach over and over till I see the blood flooding down her mouth. And then, I would kiss her and say 'See how much it hurts? See? No, you cannot see, 'cause you've had no love, no hate, nothing, no-one to take care for living on the other fuckin' side of the coast.' And then I would break her skull against the pavement, just because."

"Hostel 5 - How to kill time."

"More or less. Still, I'm sure I'd make clones of her, just to have my fun slaughtering 'em all one by one. The original should die because she had me fall for my best friend, the best clone because she had him living 67 bloody kilometres away from me, the second best one because not only we have cultural barriers and a fuckin' long distance to cope with, but also a freaking' twisted history together - I mean, it's not only Arthur and Francis here. It's England and France we're talking about. When we were kids, _Maman_ didn't even want him at dinner, 'cause he was too English for her!"

"Terrible."

"Yeah. And him being a cop? I can't believe my father refused to sit next to him at my wed-" _My wedding._ Francis suddenly turned silent, took a drag on his joint and expelled the smoke slowly and thoughtfully.

Belle wallowed to his side, drawing an arm upon his chest. Nuzzling on his shoulder, she stroked his skin with her cheek, mewling appreciatively. "Big Bro, you never told me a thing about your wedding. I bet it was grand - something that a Prince would envy."

Francis sighed, smoothing down her hair with long strokes. "Not really. Actually, I would've loved to give a hand organising it, but J..." A breath, his tongue moistening his lips, the past becoming nothing more than the past. "Jeanne wanted to have all under control. I-I never quite get why she insisted so much to celebrate it in a corn field. She said that was her dream: to get married in a corn field, and so I said 'Alright, no-one's going to die from kernel poisoning, let's just do it'."

"What a good husband..."

"I tried to be so. I mean, I loved her! How couldn't I try my best to make her happy? But lights, music, dresses,... She even chose my suit herself, saying it had to match her bouquet - or whatever was that lavender waterfall flooding out that giant pearly shell. Can you believe she sent out the invitations without telling me? I mean, it's not like I didn't want her to arrange our wedding, but it seemed as it was only her own! Alright, I get it, you wanna have your princess-like celebration and live in a dream for that one day, but Hell, how much did it cost her to ask for my opinion?"

Belle frowned, raising her head to look into Francis' face. _Was his marriage happy for real?_

"She wanted to celebrate it in a Church - we did it. I did not fancy the idea of promising God I would eternally love her - you never know with God - but we did it. We signed the papers, we made all that was to be made, but she still left me out of all. I wanted to get her a golden ring with a heart-shaped diamond and she got home one day with our marriage rings already bought. I wanted my suit to have a lily-pin right in front of my heart and she said it would not match my shoes. 'I'll get a new pair' I said, but no, they were the exact shade of white and couldn't be swapped for anything in the world! She chose the wine herself, perfectly knowing she was hopeless at selecting it; she chose the decorations, complaining on the pinkness of the curtains she herself had asked for; she decided the seats herself, failing miserably at it - no wonder I spent half ceremony leading HER invitees to different chairs. But that was nothing, nothing compared to her own decision to refuse inviting Arthur to the party. Thank God he called me, or I would've never known."

"Big Bro?"

"You don't like him? Okay, fine! But since he is MY best friend, like it or not, he's gonna be there when I marry you and pretend everything's ok when it's actually not!"

Francis sucked in a long mouthful of air, sighing it out in a long, loud breath. He felt better - incredibly better. It was like Hulk had removed a enormous rock from his chest. Oxygen, finally! Oxygen and smog! Belle smiled, tapping his nose. "Feel better now, Big Bro?"

Francis nodded eagerly on smiling back. "You can't even imagine!"

Resting her head on his pectus, she enjoyed the tender cuddles his warm hands offered her. "I thought you were happy with her.." She stated casually, puffing in some weed.

"But I _was_ happy with her. It's just that.. I don't know. I've always thought she was the right one for me. Gracious, respectable, as beautiful as Venus. Not particularly wealthy, but a serious hard-worker. She even won some scholarships back then... You see, it was the kind of woman that would never let her life slip from her hands. So... She needed a boy, I needed a girl and we got together."

"But you didn't love her."

"No, no, that's not true. I loved her, I really did. I would've done anything to make her smile. When I proposed to her, I was sure that was the right choice, that _that _was the first step of the stair of Happiness. But now, coming to think of it, I'm not so certain that if this- this situation, this thing going on with Arthur had happened before, I would've walked up to that altar." Francis stopped, placing the joint right between his lips. "No, I'm not so sure any more.."

"Thank you, Ludwig, but you really shouldn't have left your car. It's chilly out here and my house isn't that warm." Said Arthur in turning the keys in the lock. Ludwig was right behind him, waiting for him to open the door. From the distance, one could spot his blonde head floating above his dark uniform , even though the night was pitch-dark and many lights had already been turned out.

"You might've fallen on your way back. If nothing, I would've sat there next to you."

"How kind." Arthur opened the door for the both of them, pleading he would not step in. Yet, he did. "May I offer you some tea? Or you'd rather have a last beer?"

"Tell me you've got coffee. Lie, if you must, but tell me you have some."

"Let me see..." Arthur swiftly dashed to the kitchen, pretending to open some drawers. Seeing a forgotten jar of half-full soluble coffee, he hid it in the freezer before replying aloud. "We're sorry, Herr Beilschmidt, but the coffee supply hasn't arrived yet. Are you sure you would not like some tea?"

"Arthur, I'd rather lick water from a dog-bowl that have a cup of that shit."

"Your order is my command, _mein__ Herr."_ Stretching his arm out to get a small bowl, he filled it up with tap water and carried it to Ludwig, waiting in the living room. "Here you are, _mein__ Fuhrer_. Pure tap water from my own personal sink. You won't taste any other with the same amount of calcium and nitrites and-"

"Arthur, go to hell." Ludwig placed the bowl on the table before marching towards the front door. If Arthur was not going to let him in, there was no point in forcing him to enjoy his company. When he was right outside the door, he turned to pat his head fatherly. "If anything happens, give a call, will you?"

Arthur frowned, disliking the little attention Ludwig was directing to him. "You know I won't." He remarked in shuffling his hand away.

"As you say. Take care. Bye."

"Bye." Arthur repeated in waving at him, watching him fade into the night. Once the engine of his car had roared, he was sure Ludwig had taken his leave, so he entered his house again. He got rid of his shoes and climbed the stairs, heading to his room. Without glancing to Alfred's room, he walked directly towards his bed and dived into its blankets. Having his heated-up face refreshed by their coldness, he dragged himself up to rest his face on a pillow.

Reaching down with his hand, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and checked the time. 11.02 PM. Neither too early, nor too late. He might even gain some hours of sleep. And then there was Francis' text there, waiting for a reply..

*Sane or not, I can't but love you.*

Arthur let his mobile drop from his hand, burying his face even deeper in the mattress. _He loves me. Yeah, but how long will it last? A day, a week, a month? He loves me, but will his love last? Will __**my**__ love last? _Swallowing, he lifted himself up on his elbows. Around him obscurity was eating up his room, munching on his bed, on his feet, on his skin. He could feel the darkness in his skin, soaking him like dirty water, spattering his face with its black mud. He needed to call Francis.

As soon as his mobile rung, Francis jumped out the bed and ran out of the room. "Say hello from me!" Said Belle, gliding under the blankets in waiting. In the morning, she would be ready to shoot questions at him. Lots, thousands of questions. But for now, she was only ready for bed.

"Hey, wasn't I supposed to call you?" Francis answered in closing the door of his room right behind him, quickly rushing to his bed.

*I decided otherwise. You would not know when I got back, after all, and how would I know if you were asleep or not?*

"Crystal ball?"

*Worse, Dragon balls.*

"I would not waste those 3 wishes."

*Git. How are you?*

Having turned the small lamp on, Francis made himself comfortable by placing a pillow behind his head. Seeing his figure reflected in the giant mirror in front of his bed, he noticed a smile flourishing on his lips. _Art, that's for you._ "Not bad. Half-naked on a bed, talking to my lover. I kinda feel like this scene misses some action, but it's gaining 'romance'-points second by second."

*Oh, no. Let's stop the romance before it spreads!*

"You can't! That's contagious!"

*Nooooo! I don't wanna blush at compliments!*

"But you will! Your heart will pump all blood to your cheeks and turn them shiny red! Ah-ah!"

*Bloody heart, it should pump its blood somewhere else.*

"Something lower?"

*Brain. Know what is it?*

"Is it edible?"

*Not really, but you can squish it pretty easily.* Arthur turned to face the ceiling. Not that there was much to see in the dark, but that position was easier to get rid of his trousers.

"Arthur, are you struggling with a wrestler? There's a funny background noise.."

*These bleeding trousers are glued to my skin - Dammit!* Francis attentively listened through all the ruckus, picturing the scene in front of his eyes. Arthur, in the dark, rubbing his legs one against the other- _Too vulgar_! Arthur, in the dark, reaching down to unzip his trousers and- Francis! Arthur, in the dark,- *Okay. Okay, I got rid of them. Hooray for me. Wo-oh.* -with only his pants on_._ "I'm having bad thoughts, but if I voiced them, you would cut the conversation."

*Great, keep 'em for yourself.*

"All of them?"

*Why, d'you think I'd care to listen?*

"Dunno, actually. Maybe. I would like to listen to your thoughts."

*One thing are thoughts, Fran, another sexual fantasies.*

"Whatever they were, I'd listen."

*For real?*

"Of course. Why I wouldn't?"

*I don't know. My thoughts ain't this interesting.. And surely, I don't want you to get bored!*

"You can't bore me out. Unless you repeat me the same stuff over and over and over and over and over and over and over-"

*Fuck, it's broken. Where did I put the hammer?*

"-and over and over and over."

*And over.*

"That's right. Still, I'd rather have you sharing your doubts than being left ignorant of the mess swirling in your head."

*Mhm.. Okay. If you say so.. Then, can I ask you something?*

"Sure you can." _What is he going to ask me?_ Francis was now resting his head on his bent arm, fearing Arthur's next move. It wasn't easy to speak on the phone, since all you could do was imagining what the other might be doing. There was this weak shield between you two, that was less useful than a thin piece of paper. And yet, this device was all they had to hear from each other.

*Francis, be honest. Do you really believe this is going to last?*

Francis blinked, swallowed, munched on his lip passing a hand through his hair. "Honestly?"

*Honestly.*

"I _want_ it to last. Now, I can't say anything about the future, but I know something about the present. In my present, there is you. You carved a small tunnel inside my head and booked a large room in my heart. Now, not that I complain, but you could've asked for the keys before forcing the door."

Arthur laughed briefly. *Thank you.*

"What about you? Do you want it to last?"

On the other side of the phone, silence could be heard. Arthur took his time to skim though all the memories of the day, but he eventually found his answer. *I still have my doubts. It's partly because that's something new for me. I mean, it's not like I've had many men in my life.. Not in this way, at least. Anyway. For the rest, I... I've never been very successful with women. Now, this might sound like a valid point for you, but to me, that only means I'm hopeless as a lover. Alright, we both had a ring on our fingers, but mine is somewhere in the river Thames and yours, only you know where it is. Not to say that you were in love with your wife, so... I'm sorry to say this, but if you're seeking for someone to replace her, please, rub me out of the list. And, if I want it to last... I don't know. Seriously, I don't know if I want it to last. I like having you round and, sincerely, I know I miss you, I miss you terribly when you're not here. And... And I want you, I want you here, I want another kiss. I want to love you, but... But I don't know how.*

Staring blankly at the ceiling, Francis felt bliss building up in his body. His heart was so full of joy, that he could feel his blood rushing from his brain to his feet in no time. He wanted to cry, to scream, he needed Arthur in his arms. For a moment, the idea of getting back to England crept into his brain, but his happiness did not give him the time to think. He smiled stupidly, tilting his head from side to side, thinking back to all the words Arthur had said.

*...Francis?*

Raising his eyebrows, Francis simply commented. "You melted my heart."

*Oh, Fuck. I shall never _ever_ open my heart to you again.*

"No! Just... Thanks. That was- That was incredible. I hope someone's intercepting us, 'cause I want the audio-tape."

*I hope not! Hell, I've just flushed my pride down a toilet!*

"Check if it's not clogged! I wouldn't like you to die in such a dignified way.."

*What a wanker. No, that's not, thank you very much. And... Fran?*

"Yes, Art?"

*...Are you still in bed?*

"Yes, of course. It's not like I set off for America or anything."

*Mhm. Are you naked?*

_Arthur?_ "No. No, not completely. I still have my jeans on."

*Will you- Will you take 'em off?*

_Arthur, I love you. _"Alright. But only if you do the same." Placing his mobile on the bedpost, he reached down to unbutton his jeans. He also tried to make the zip screech the loudest possible, but apparently, he only owned silenced zips. "Done."

*O-Okay. And...*

"Do you still have your shirt on?"

*Huh? No. No, I've just taken it off... Along with everything else.*

"Arthur?"

*..Yes, Francis?*

"Close your eyes."

Arthur never though much of sex on the phone. Still, he found himself panting as soon as Francis' hissed French overcame the barriers of his ears to voluptuously snake into his brain. To his surprise, his sweet orders got his hands to glide down his sides, shifting between his thighs, scratching his skin right up to his navel. He did not try to fight, too aroused to struggle back, too amused to stop his fun.

He replied without thinking, describing the scene as it played in his mind. He would ask Francis to touch his neck with his knuckles, travel down to his chest, pinch his nipples to get them hard and gently kiss, lick, suck his body as if it was fresh water. He craved for his slink touch as much as he needed those fiery words, inflaming his insides with their dirty sensuality.

The lewd sensation of his lustful hands sliding down his hips, his steamy breathing between his thighs, the sultry bites, the marks, the sex. _Je __t'aime__ - I love you _They chanted to each other, desperately munching on their lips at every lecherous wave of arousal.

Smoothly skittering underneath his pants, Arthur let Francis guide his frenzied movements. Starting with long, slow strokes, Arthur soon needed to lustfully clench the bed-sheets, wantonly pumping and pleading for more. Still, Francis conducted him carefully, whispering amorous words into his ears, till he eventually led him into the intensity of an orgasm.

Gasping for air, Arthur felt is whole body throbbing with excitement. He had nothing to add, just a few more pants and a murmured _I love you, bastard_. Francis touched his lips, purple and swollen under his pads and still bleeding for the bites. He smiled through his pain, knowing those scars were well-deserved, for he hadn't left Arthur hanging, nor woken up Belle sleeping. Resting his head on his pillow, he softly whispered. "Sleep tight into my arms, _mon__ amour._ I'm kissing your mouth, lulling you until slumber comes. _Je __t'aime_."

* * *

-End ch. 20

Zanteh's back!  
Firstly: **THANK YOU** for reading, commenting and wishing me good luck. It worked! *Zanteh graduated with 95/100 :D * Not that I wouldn't appreciate some more support xD Also, I thank everyone and everything I quoted in this story, from DBZ to the Marmite commecial, from the different types of ale to weed.  
Secondly: HOORAY for **Mello18,** our 100th reader! I tried to make your request the more IC possible... in the next Chapter. This story started on Wednesday, now it is Thursday and the last day before they see each other is tomorrow, Friday. You see, this chapter turned out INCREDIBLY LONG (satisfied, afairyprincessinapunkrockbank?), so it would've damaged your eyes to read some more.. Yet, I did my best to add more Francis-salt to the story :)  
Thirdly: Let's see who's the first guessing who **the hostess** is. :D (The surname is a hint!)  
Fourthly: There is a reason why Francis & Belle speak English: most of the readers are non-**French** speaking people. Therefore:

_Je suis terriblement désolée, mes chers quant hypocrites lecteurs, mais pas seulement la langue des Rosbifs c'est la seule que tout le monde réussi à comprendre, il faut dire aussi que la plupart des Francophones a encore du mal à se débrouiller avec la grammaire. Pour ces raisons-ci, je vous demande pardon._


	21. Friends and foes

**Friends and foes**

It wasn't like Arthur had an hangover, no. Just, a furious cattle was stomping over and over his neurons, horning into his skull, insane protagonist of a mad corrida. Pressing the pillow to the sides of his head wasn't really helping - apparently, you can't push goose-feathers in your ears, no matter how hard you punch - which eventually got him to roll out of bed with a hoarse lion-like groan. Staggering to the bathroom, hitting only occasionally the frames of his doors or his wobbling furniture, he found a solid ceramic shoulder in his sink, firmly screwed and glued and stuck to the wall - or at least, it should be, after all the duck-tape and paste and epoxy he and Alfred had poured on, upon and behind it in a failed attempt to do some manual work around the house.

There, after a moment of rest spent mostly in the unnecessary effort to catch his perfectly even breath, Arthur's hands rummaged through the drawers hidden in the mirror-wall, searching thoroughly by handling, turning over, disarranging their content till _there they were! _He eventually found his hangover-pills, his real happy-pills, those big fat white bulgy cowboys, ready to tame the bulls mooing in his brains.

He popped a couple down, perfectly aware of the immediate need to drink, _'cause the bastards sure where helpful, but damn if you forgot to chug half-a-gallon of water after swallowing a couple!_ Gulping a good pint from the pearly stream flowing out his right tap, Arthur carelessly allowed that controlled rain to leak down the sides of his mouth, pooling right at the base of his chin, where it could easily trail down his tensed neck onto his torso and down again until there was nothing but a small drop of the previous ceaseless river.

Founding himself quite fond of the thought, Arthur splashed some water on his face, drying with wet hands his doused skin before reaching out for a towel. Being it too distant, he had to straighten himself up, inevitably catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror-wall. A wave of disgust, too similar to the nausea you get when sick and about to vomit, dashed across his body, pooling right in the depths of his stomach. His body, so scrawny, so deformed, repelled him. It wasn't its weakness - His body'd never really been weak - but the frailness which permeated its fibers, the stubborn rigidity of his composure, the strive painted on his face. He felt hatred oozing out of those pores, hatred and sadness and scars and loneliness carving his mud-statuary figure. In front of himself there was no man, but wet sand and thick, viscous clot.

With his arm spread to the front, he could easily spot the brownish cuts where he'd put more pressure, the old faint ones, the new purplish wounds, the red ribbons sprawled across his forearm, only halfway to his wrists, only a blow away from his tendons. There is something confusing in self-harm, it is the fresh breath of pure air you need after being stuck underwater for too long and yet, it makes you realise seaweed's still dragging you to the bottom. _Cutting is not the problem. _Maybe Francis should know - Maybe Francis already knows. He's always known.

Arthur inspects once again the sand-man in the mirror. He's not too bad, if you look really closely. Not too bad - No disfiguring sign on his face, no serious handicap or maimed limb, no burn of any sort, no large war-wound, no brain-tumor deforming his skull. Nothing, but the grumpy cranky old Mr Arthur Kirkland. Yet, there is something different, this is not the Arthur of the day before, not the Mr. Kirkland of two days ago. This Arthur smiles when on the display of his phone that blessed name, _Francis,_ appears, and he smiles whole-heartedly and this glee is pure and genuine and spontaneous and new to the cells of his body, this energy radiating from the inside, lighting up his face, dizzying and twirling his intestines in a confused and frantic dance – and he likes it. The wonderful surprise of a _good-morning_, Ah! he missed this sensation of serene awkwardness. Arthur reads, carefreely giggling like a school-girl, for he's never felt this good in such a long time.

_"_Good morning,_ mon ange _:* "

* * *

The refreshing French sun was hammering Francis' forehead just not rudely enough for him to wake up, when Belle suddenly slammed the entrance-door just cruelly enough for him to jump and shout "I didn't cheat on you, I swear!"

"Good morning, Princess! Will you drag your wiggling ass to the bathroom or do I have to kick it out of bed myself?" Belle shouted from the corridor. There was smell of freshly-baked croissants in the air and the gurgling of the coffee-machine filling the rare crumbles of silence left here and there by the usual noise of morning traffic, the usual mumbling of his precious half-awoken Paris. Involountarily, Francis suspected Hélène, the pretty girl owning the bakery right on the other side of the street, the big bread-shop with the windows facing the main entrance of the block of flats, might have seen them bickering the day before. But this was already a too complex thought for that early in the morning and he forced its evil out of his brain with a single yawn.

The daylight was too white and crude, though, and barely convinced him to sparkle a twinkle of vitality out of his dazed morning-self - in the form of a session of stretching exercises. Francis in the morning is nothing different from a cat waking up after a long nap. It's not only his hair, messier and wavier than before his grooming-ritual, but the whole of his actions: he stretches out his limbs, rolls to the side, curves his spine, tilts his head to the sides, draws long paths of shadows with his nails in the creamy duvets, arches his back till even his bum is a bundle of red muscles working-out - all counting the majestic presence of his morning-erection waving at him from below layers of fabric.

"Princess, get out of that fucking room! We're gonna be late!"

Rubbing his face in the pillow as his whole spine relaxed, Francis tried to draw away the relient slumber hovering above his pupils - without much success. He then wiggled his bottom to the side till his whole body caught the rhythm and rocked to the left, incautiously taking some blanket with him. Not caring, he twirled again till he reached the very end of his bed, now the blanket wrapped around his body, swallowing it up like a mermaid's tail. He kicked it away effortlessly, powered more by annoyance and fear of another of Belle's shrieks than by actual wish to walk out of his own room. A shallow oscillation and - he was on the floor. Fortunately, the copious amount of blankets and his somewhat-smart reflexes make him land on all-four, with his head only a few millimeters away from the corner of his night-table. Good. _The amount of luck you were granted for the day has now been reduced to zero. Thank you for choosing God-is-merciful-even-at-8am, we hope you have a decent day. For further information, advice, complaints, please, do pray. We won't listen._

With the mental image of Her Holiness the Virgin Mary as God's personal secretary, Francis limped to his wardrobe, slammed it open, enjoyed the reek of cigarette coming from the clothes abandoned to the right - the neglected, worn-down ones, the clothes he feet comfortable with.. so comfortable, that they were now impregnated with his own smell and the stinky smoke of those terrible cigarettes he gulped like wine. His eyes arrowed to the side, where he carefully selected a pair of black jeans, not too thigh, not particularly baggy either – but just about the right size that would make Arthur go red with jealousy.

_Is Arthur even jealous, though?_ Francis wondered as he picked up a bright-pink turtleneck sweatshirt. He felt fancy, he felt indeed very gay. _As if there was any difference between the Straight Me and the Gay Me_, he assured himself as he tip-toed to his night-table to fetch his mobile and choose a pair of clean underpants from the drawers below - _It wasn't too bad last night,_ he thought absentmindedly on smirking at his friend between his legs. _Not bad at all._

"Francis!"

"I'm in the bathroom!"

"Like hell you are! C'me on, I don't wanna leave Feli alone with the girls!"

"The girls alone with Feli, you mean!" They chuckled, those two children. It's always like that, when they spend a night together. Not really sharing a bed, but offering each other shelter, giving each other warmth for a couple of hours before resting. They wake up, the first (usually Belle) buys some croissants or madeleines for breakfast, starts the coffee-machine and boils some milk, shouting at the other to be quick, for being alone in the morning can be worse than being alone at night - and they have breakfast, gossip and chat and sip their coffee so heart-wrenchingly slowly, because every minute together is to be treasured, every minute not-alone is to be treasured.

Yet, there is something different today. Francis is not in a hurry, he takes the time of his life to get ready. Even if everything happens so mechanically, he eventually follows the path of his own thoughts today - and he's sure they won't lead him on the wrong path, because Arthur's guarding his happiness now. Or so he likes to believe. Belle's growing sad in the kitchen, but he can't spare but a few thoughts for her - he doesn't even have the necessary sense of guilt to comb his hair more quickly or to refuse a _good-morning _text to his lover - even if it takes a lot of thinking to find the right words to send to Arthur. Not only a man, _Arthur_.

Still doubting the efficiency of his text, he even considers shaving his beard, something he doesn't do so very often because of his too sensitive skin. Splashing soothing creams and ammonia on your face to avoid scarring it is a curse he would not wish to his worst enemy either. He therefore postponed the torture to the following day, when Arthur would come and they'd have.. yes.. maybe.. _some time for themselves_. Together. Yes. _Better shaving tomorrow!_ He promptly told himself as he sponged his body under the warm jet of water of a quick shower.

"Francis!" Belle tiredly cried once more than needed, once more than wished as he strived to put on his clothes and wear some cologne (it had taken him longer than expected to satisfy his "friend", but only Arthur was to blame for this.) and he rushed out of the bathroom, perfectly groomed, ready for this new, new in all senses, day. It is not a good day for Belle, though. Francis is not Francis. This new man, smiling happily, stinking of lavander soap and woman-perfume, this is not Francis. She's not too sure she likes him.

* * *

Buttoning up his silver-birch-hued cotton shirt, Arthur pondered a nice but not-too-sugary reply to the ever so sweet message. Here and then, between a sip and the other, he considered these very small steps of his, all heading so very cautiously towards that so longed and feared _other side _of the street, where pink neon-lights and flashy signs glimmered so very luminously, that you could believe they'd robbed the sky of its stars. Sighing only occasionally, he sometimes found himself posing much more femininely than necessary, with the curves of his left hip excessively exposing their barely-existent roundness. He immediately tried to correct this fatal mistake, which in social situations could bring him to unawaited and unwanted questions - open legs, manly posture, perpetous frown. _This will do. _Even though it seemed so unnatural, Arthur preferred to show that fictitious picture of himself, his grumpy, angry, annoyed self, than this bright and brand new self. He didn't quite know how to handle all the good fuzzy feelings in his chest still - and he was actually afraid someone would take them away. Better protect your happiness till it's there!

Not only, but a certain part of himself trembled at the possibility someone may interfere with his life more than they already did. Spending that half-an-hour every morning with his co-workers wasn't something he enjoyed particularly, but the episodic laughter those chaps managed to bring out of him and the sheer sarcasm he greeted them with - he didn't really want to lose this all, this climate of fake peacefulness, to be ostracised just because his new bed-mate wasn't a boobs-endowed semen-container with glorious lips covered in goldenfish-red lipstick. _Not that all women are inflatable dolls, but seeing how it's been so far... _Really, Arthur didn't think anyone with some brain and a little mascara would pick him.

Francis was.. okay, he guessed. An overly-dramatic romantic prick with a small flat in Paris, a somewhat unstable work and a deep affection for him. Francis would do. After spending a night on the phone with him, Arthur was even fairly certain he would allow his hands to glide on his body - of course, only after a couple of glasses of wine! He wasn't too sure he would do anything at all without alcohol in his veins, he sadly admitted to himself while splattering some jam on a toast on waiting for the kettle to beep, signaling water was now warm enough for his second cup of morning-tea.

A few tea leaves in the colander, a couple tea-spoons of sugar, some minutes passing whilst munching on his toast and a dash of milk to taste. Keeping track of the time limping on, he quietly sipped the beige liquid, wondering if he was ready to take the risk every relationship implied.

He took his phone, typed a quick text, swallowed the last bit of toast with a few drops of tea. _Of course I am._

* * *

"Not really an angel this morning. Too much sugar in your coffee?"

Francis beamed joyfully as he read through the lines on the display, munching his croissant damped in café au lait. Belle was gossiping about some school-mates of her, a certain Sandra and Nadine who happened to be her friends, but Francis was not paying much attention - and this did not go unnoticed. The main topic of conversation did not leave the ground-level, strangely enough for them, used to discussing Phylosophy even this early in the morning, and Belle hoisted a sad and dissatisfied metaphorical flag as symbol of on-going fight and attempted cooperation with this new barrier which wasn't there before. This is what Arthur would say in the evening, explaining to Francis why she distanced herself so much since they had that phone-call.

Time floats by, passes by the shop-windows and through the oak-leaves, under ladies' skirts whilst twirling around their heels and as it goes they drive to their working place, an abandoned asylum just outside Paris, where there is a wonderful, majestic 100 square meters room all for them to exploit. Francis loved the smell of burnt lime of those lonely walls, he adored it from the very first moment he had stepped into the run-down mansion on the hill.

Belle parked right under a dead cherry-tree, struck by a lightning some days before and diagnosticated inevitably dead by the gardener of the village nearby. Somehow, a part of her felt like that cherry-tree. With one last glance, she bid fare-well to her natural self and reached Francis, who was already turning down the handle of the enormous door to enter the perfect location where their art would become reality.

"It was about time! Where have you been, you lazy bums?" Feliciano's voice resounded in the immense room, tingling against every brick, vast and grand and loud like an oceanic tide. "What a nice groom have we here, don't you think, girls?" He observed quite too nastily for Francis' taste, squinting his eyes whilst walking in his peculiar oblique manner towards his face. At the sound of the models' laughter, Francis' smile bloomed to show, inflaming and brightening his face. He felt amazingly, why hiding it, then? Why hiding the light hint of blush on his cheeks at those long-forgotten compliments?

"You look lovely today, boss!", "You're so charming, M. Bonnefoy!", "If only you were less scruffy..".. No, wait. The last one wasn't so nice. Who..?

"You could've at least tried to shave off those hairs from your face, Mr. Perfection." Belle stingily added. "I guess it can't be helped though.." Sighing, she walked off with her PC, starting it as soon as she found a chair where to sit. "Okay, Feli. Let's start."

Feliciano then clapped his hands and his shrill but loud voice bumped against every surface: "Alright, girls! Now tell me: What are you?" Silence crumbled as the models took their positions. "PIGS! Nothing more than dead pigs hanging from the hooks! What are you? CARCASSES! Cows dismembered for our fun! What are you? DEAD! You are dead, our wicked animals, AND WE KILLED YOU!" He stopped wandering around just to shout again: "And now I shall ask anew: WHAT. ARE. YOU?"

Oinks and moos echoed in the room, the models offering a sick morbid show to all of them. Feliciano then proceeded to select those he reputed were better in character and sent them to the dressing room, where Francis awaited. There, they would receive instructions about their role, be dressed and painted. When all the necessary staff had been sent to Francis, Belle and Feliciano, with the help of the spared victims, started building the scene, moving the lights and the drapes in order for it to resemble a slaughterhouse, hiding in strategic places the security cables.

It all seemed to proceed well, if only Francis hadn't noticed that Feliciano and Belle kept murmuring to each other, Feli looking particularly concerned. After having taken the necessary pictures, he decided to discover what their whispering was all about. It surprisingly came out that they needed a new model for the future shots, but none of the presents was suitable enough to convey the message. Being the dead-line so close, they needed to find a scrawny guy who would pass for being in his 30s – yet all they had were either muscular gym-addicted or sharp trim emotionless ghosts.

The issue kept them wondering and silent even at lunch, when Feliciano suddently broke out with "Were have you been lately, Franz?" Feli had a thing for mispronouncing names. Not that his Italian-stained French was that delightful to Francis' ears – hippity-hoppity as it was, bouncing and rolling, with no accent in the right place. He just liked exaggerating. Fortunately, Feli worked for them only occasionally, having a job as director of photography for the national television. He was totally unable to organise anything, but when it came to lights and colours, he was an absolute genious. As Francis needed someone to train Belle and to help him, Feliciano just asked to have a word in what to do – normally, he would just obey orders and requests, whereas with Francis he could be 90% free to choose how to create his own setting. "Give me a paintbrush and I'll show you the world", he used to say.

"I was at a friend's house, we decided to watch the match together and I ended up staying a day longer." Belle eyed the both carefully, munching on her sandwich as the conversation excluded her definetly. Suddently, she felt incredibly uneasy.

"And what's he like, Fran?"

Francis munched the last bit of his lunch, padded his mouth with the napkin and while reaching for his water-bottle replied: "Very nice, kinda bony, blondish, tall as I am."

Feli sipped on his own water, exclaiming: "It would amaze me if you didn't take a picture of him to show us! Or- I'm sure he has a Facebook profile.." Before Francis could say anything, he had already fished out his phone and entered Francis' Facebook, tapping to skim through his friends, reading out loud their names. "Which one?" he asked after a few.

Arthur owned a Facebook. He hardly ever opened it, but he owned one, his profile created as a bet. He never quite resolved on how it worked and deemed it "fuckin' technology, I'll learn how to use you someday". His main purpose was to see what his collegues were up to and to hear from Francis or Ludwig from time to time, but he wasn't much of an addicted. The photos he was tagged in were mostly taken by his co-workers during the occasional birthdays celebrated in the smoking area outside or in front of the vending machines, with champagne in their hands and sometimes a cigarette in the other. Pictures of himself, almost none, but his three profile pictures. Francis took them all: One on their last trip to Brighton years before, another at his wedding, the last one on their Christmas together when he had just recovered. His current profile showed the Christmas photo, with him wearing his jacket and hand-knitted scarf, trembling, red, pale, smiling.

This was the picture Feliciano immediately noticed and beaming, added: "Tell me it's this guy!" Francis was almost forced to agree, having to bear the sequent excited stream of words which abruptly came to an end with the order: "Invite him over! We need him!" In no time, Francis was forced to reply to Arthur's last text with a mellifluous "What time shall I pick you up tomorrow? I can't wait to see you!"

* * *

Unfortunately, when Francis eventually answered, Arthur found himself already cornered by that snake undercover that Lily was. She had followed him during the pause, spying on him as he brewed his tea and as soon as he had poured some hot water in his cup, she hopped out of her hidden spot behind the wall to lurk upon him with her sweetest smile plastered on her face.

No explanation needed when she quietly but sternly required him to walk her to the security room, having she "something important" to show. Vash was not in the building, she informed, but he would be back in no time had she called him. Arthur knew it was better not to contradict Miss Zwingli. Had she asked for the moon, the moon would be hers.

Still, this was something more than the moon itself for Arthur. What Lily put her hands on was a video-tape of him and Francis, the video recorded by the security camera in the bathroom. _God, you have no mercy. _Arthur mentally commented as she displayed it clearly on one of the many televisions in the room. Fortunately, she had had the tact to shoo the staff members away granting them a long pause. _She's the boss' sister. Better obey. _But Arthur would've strangled her and destroyed the video without hesitation.

However, he did not have the guts. "What do you want me to do?" He mindlessly asked. This unexpected twist gave Lily the power to do anything to him. Nobody had to know – and having Lily knowing was already one person too many.

"Ludwig knows nothing about the video. Yet, he suspects there must be something going on between you and the dear Monsieur Bonnefoy. Vash does not care, but if Ludwig ever asked, he'd hunt you down mercilessly. Everybody chats behind your back, but this is nothing new for you, isn't it? I won't push the rumors any further, but do not give them reasons to intensify their murmuring. Do not care. Neither they care, people just want to talk and you coming out would quench their thirst for gossips." Lily swirled around to face Arthur, her hands now trailing up his shirt. Her forearms slid up his chest, nestling around his neck. Her body was dramatically close. Her face was dramatically close. "I'm just a weak little girl, tiny and defenseless, Mr. Kirkland. And as all little Princesses, all I need to grant my wishes is a good, lovingly, unexpected fairy." 

* * *

End Ch. 21

The Author is sorry for having kept you all waiting. This Chapter was extremely painful to write, seen that my computer cancelled it multiple times and that personal events kept me away from her PC.  
It was an author's choice to switch to English entirely.

Reviews are appreciated! 


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